


There'll Be Some Changes Made

by SimplyLucia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: 1920s, Adult Content, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Bisexual Female OC, Bootleggers, Brothels, Dark, F/M, Feminist Themes, Historical References, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, Mystery, New York City, Oral Sex, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Show Business, Suicidal Thoughts, UST, Violence, Violence against women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 28
Words: 243,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyLucia/pseuds/SimplyLucia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Universe, Prohibition era.<br/>New York City, 1923. After Joffrey Baratheon breaks their engagement, Sansa Stark ends up in Petyr Baelish's brothel, where she works as a dancer. She soon realizes her customers die one after the other...</p><p>"You don't want me to dance, you say you're not here to spy on me, so why did you come?" she asked the Hound again.<br/>Sansa's high-pitched voice revealed her exasperation; he looked straight in her eyes and, forgetting about the chocolates, he leaned forward so that his head was at arm's length of her knees.<br/>"I'm your way out, girl."<br/>He had uttered these words in such a way it sounded like a threat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red Sky at Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Underthenorthernlights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Underthenorthernlights/gifts).



> All the characters belong to George R. R. Martin.
> 
> This fic wouldn't exist without the support and help of my fantastic beta reader, Underthenorthernlights, that's why this work is dedicated to her.
> 
> For this first chapter, there's a warning for suicidal thoughts and violence against women. Don't read this if you're not comfortable with these themes.  
> In this story, Sansa has no brothers or sisters, except Robb.  
> The title comes from a popular song of the 1920's, by Benton Overstreet and Billy Higgins.

The void tempted her; the white-stone guardrail wouldn't be an obstacle, and thirty feet below, asphalt would welcome her, give her the quick death she yearned for. She would have black pillows on her deathbed. Sansa Stark didn't know people who had committed suicide and she was sure it was a sin, yet her faith had been put to the test, lately. She didn't pray anymore, she didn't go to the church. She didn't go anywhere, actually.

The large balcony overlooking the busy street, the other one with a view of the back alley and the gorgeous room she had been given were the only places she would visit. She couldn't even lock herself in: bolts don't exist in brothels. So there she was, forced to stay in the large, beautiful bedroom with silk wall hangings of peach and cream-white and a massive four-poster bed, reminding her of her new social status. Two years ago, things were quite different though and she had convinced herself she would taste the perfect life Edith Wharton's heroines lived in New York; she would have a big outstanding mansion opening onto Central Park, wear the finest clothes and go to receptions and garden-parties. She would belong to the best circles.

For a sixteen-year-old girl born and raised in Saint Paul, Minnesota, the prospect of moving to New York City had been thrilling. New York meant all she had ever dreamed of: hustle and bustle in the streets, incredible parties and a different way of life. Even if her family was prominent in Saint Paul, with her father's bank and her elder brother's hydroelectric power plant, living in New York would propel her in a new and exciting world.

The day Robert Baratheon had come to visit Eddard, her father, his reputation as a successful banker preceded him: he suggested that Eddard and the group he ruled make an alliance. No one would resist them, he had said. It was the only way for Eddard's bank to become more than the most popular bank in Minnesota: their future group would have customers from the Canadian border to the Atlantic. However, Eddard had to move to New York City, because banks couldn't ignore the stock exchange anymore and because everything would be more convenient. Her father needed to be persuaded, but Robert Baratheon was good at convincing people. Sansa remembered him sitting in their blue dining room at the end of the dinner, putting aside her mother's precious china plates of blue and gold and gesturing over the white starched tablecloth. Robert Baratheon, with his tall and massive figure had something so reassuring Sansa couldn't help smiling when he was around. He knew how to make her father laugh and she immediately loved him for that reason.

Robert Baratheon had other plans: brokering a marriage between Sansa and his son Joffrey, who coveted the seat of governor of New York state. Joffrey needed a wife and she had just made her debut in Saint Paul; Robert suggested all the Stark family – except her brother Robb who had to stay to manage his power plant – moved to New York. He promised Sansa and her mother Catelyn that his wife Cersei and his daughter Myrcella would take them to their friends' houses. He promised the girl a new life, much more exciting that what she had known so far and, in the end, it was Sansa who persuaded her parents, begging and coaxing them like she did when she was eight and asked them for a new doll. Her father was always weak when she made her 'pretty please' face; he yielded, closing his eyes and puckering up as if he had eaten a sour cherry. At that moment, Sansa was hopping up and down with impatience, without understanding why he was so reluctant and what Eddard Stark, a well-known banker, feared so much.

The expression she had read on his face still haunted her, two years later. Her heart in her throat, she observed the urban landscape plunged into semi-darkness as the sun went down; over there, on the left, there was a large red brick house she wished she could forget. At first, their stay in New York was in accordance with her expectations: she visited the city with Cersei and Myrcella, her eyes widening in front of the large avenues and the theaters. She flirted with Joffrey. She spent hours in the Red Mansion, the large and lavish house the Baratheons possessed on 5th Avenue. At that time, the fact that Joffrey Baratheon was not the charming prince she had imagined and sometimes treated her with an unexpected rudeness didn't matter, even after their engagement; when she was sad, she just had to stride along the large streets and to watch the passers-by hurrying in Grand Central Station or down any subway entrance to regain her composure.

Whenever she came back home, she would stop at her father's office to tell him what she had done or to show him the new dress she had bought, but Eddard Stark looked anxious; with a furrowed brow, he contemplated the papers displayed on his desk. He began to talk about the local mafia and the bootleggers. Month after month, the creases on his forehead deepened, until Robert Baratheon died.

The rich banker ate and drank too much: everyone knew he couldn't live to be a hundred and, in Sansa's eyes, he was old enough to die, yet there was something that made her uncomfortable with Robert's death, especially when her parents began to whisper about it at night, when they were alone in the dining room and thought she didn't listen. When they talked about bootlegging, election fraud and corruption, she understood Robert's death was nowhere near natural.

Catelyn and Eddard Stark were on their way to the police precinct when they had a car accident. People reported that their chauffeur, Henry, was drunk but she didn't believe it; Henry worked for her family since Robb's birth and he didn't drink alcohol because his own father was a drunkard. _Only someone who doesn't know Henry can make up such a story._ Immediately after her parents' death, Cersei Baratheon told Sansa she could live with them all in the Red Mansion, but it sounded like an order rather than an invitation.

Catelyn and Eddard Stark's funeral took place in Robb's absence and no one told her where her brother was nor why he couldn't make it. Sansa cried her eyes out but she didn't know yet what kind of ordeal awaited her. Since her arrival, on a sunny afternoon of May, two years before, what she enjoyed most were her wanderings in New York: she had explored one area after another, she had raised her gaze to watch the buildings, her gloved hand holding her hat. Cersei made it clear the day she moved in the Red Mansion: Sansa couldn't leave the house without her or Joffrey and it would be better if she stayed in her room; thus the gorgeous house on 5th Avenue became her jail.

Her daily routine was either gloomy or terrifying; the good days, when Joffrey and Cersei ignored her, she shut herself away in her room, listening to Allegri's _Miserere_. Her father's phonograph and his collection of 78 rpm were all she had left. This sound recording was Eddard's favorite and whenever she listened to the two choirs answering each other, she felt like he was still by her side. On the bad days, Joffrey deployed a wealth of imagination to humiliate her and sometimes asked one of his men to beat her.

Leaving the balcony where she stood, she slowly walked to the phonograph, gingerly took the shellac 78 rpm her father loved so much then placed it on the turntable before lowering the tonearm so that the stylus brushed the glossy surface of the record. Once she heard the singers' voices, plaintive and serene at the same time, the ugly world she lived in disappeared. Closing her eyes, she fancied herself in Saint Paul, in the library where her father used to relax after a hard day. She had been happy there, even if she had ignored it at the time. _Happy and loved and free to do what I wanted._

As soon as they had flooded in the room, the voices shushed and she opened her eyes again. Nothing had changed: she was stuck in the splendid bedroom Petyr Baelish had given her, one week ago.

After her parents' funeral, when she realized she was trapped with Cersei and Joffrey, she wondered why they didn't just let her go. She got her answer when Cersei, supported by a bunch of lawyers, asked her to sign documentation. It said Sansa renounced her parents' inheritance; she understood Cersei was taking over the bank Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark had created, in all likelihood to pay for Joffrey's election campaign. She refused to sign anything and Cersei asked the lawyers to leave them alone. She then showed Sansa a newspaper cutting from the Saint Paul Dispatch; the snippet related how a large part of Robb's power plant had been damaged by fire, five days ago.

"It could happen in your parents' estate, next time," Cersei warned her. "I've heard your brother still lives there."

"I want to talk to him," Sansa begged. "Please, let me talk to Robb."

The blond woman she once thought to be her friend looked down at her, silent.

"If I sign this documentation, I want to go back to Minnesota."

"I'm afraid you're not in a position to ask anything," Robert's widow replied coldly. "Sign this, and your dear brother will live."

Cersei gave her the documentation with a fountain pen and she had no other choice than to comply.

In the Red Mansion, she had an overview of the Baratheon activities: now she understood that the numerous men Robert had presented her as body guards who took care of his family's safety were in fact hatchet men. Blackmailing people, like she had done with Sansa, was only one of Cersei's many ways to make sure her son would be the next governor. Her family, the Lannisters, moved in and Sansa soon understood that their wealth was based on numerous fields, bootlegging being the most profitable of all. In Saint Paul, many people – including Eddard – said that the federal government did little to enforce the Volstead Act which prohibited the sale of alcohol, but to Cersei's great displeasure, her own brother-in-law, Stannis Baratheon, was a member of the Coast Guard Office.

A few days after Sansa renounced to her inheritance, an uncommon nervousness took hold of the men who worked for the Red Mansion. The morning after, she heard a shootout had happened on a beach, in New Jersey, between bootleggers and police force. Bootleggers had managed to escape, but they had lost most of their shipment.

Sansa was reading the newspaper, trying to give meaning to what she witnessed in the Red Mansion when Joffrey told her her presence wasn't necessary anymore. He was now engaged to Margaery Tyrell, the daughter of a wealthy manufacturer, and he explained to Sansa she would be welcome in one of the brothels his treasurer, Petyr Baelish, owned in Manhattan. When she thought about it a week later, she recalled few details of her last meeting with Joffrey; she cried so much that it was all a blur. She begged, knelt in front of him, she even believed for a while it was some trick Joffrey had made up to torture her, before telling her it was a jape. But it was no jape: a housemaid was filling a trunk with her belongings and two of the Kettleblack brothers escorted her out of the Red Mansion.

The thought of Catelyn's reaction if she could see her at that moment overwhelmed Sansa. Shame or sorrow weren't enough to express what she felt: becoming a whore meant decay. All her mother's efforts to raise her as a well-bred young lady would be wrecked and her family's honor shattered.

Thus, she was on her balcony, as the night fell on New York, filling the air with a mix of odors: onions, grease and smoke. _Disgusting._ Later on, there would be men singing and shouting in the streets. Hoarse or high-pitched, she wouldn't enjoy their voices, however: she had a guest, tonight, a customer who was about to arrive. She shivered in her flimsy dress and the contact of the smooth fabric brought back the pain.

When she had arrived in the four-stories building where two dozens ladies entertained men, Petyr Baelish had told her she wouldn't work as a prostitute to begin with. She would be a private dancer for a month or two, until he found some patron to whom he could sell her maidenhood. By then, she was supposed to welcome her customers in her bedroom and to dance for them between her large bed and the balcony.

Two nights before, a fat man had been her first customer. At first, the fear he read in her eyes pleased the man. "A true maiden" he said. Then, when she adamantly refused to dance for him, he became mad. He beat her back with his leather belt, before forcing her to perform what he had paid for.

Once he was gone, she threw herself on her bed and sobbed; she didn't know one could feel so desperate. She decided to call him 'Pig' as a pointless revenge, but it didn't soothe her. The madam, a Russian woman in her thirties named Peitho, came to her room, tried to comfort her and applied ointment on her sore back. Peitho ruled the brothel when Baelish was not there; and though she was the one who had opened the door to the fat man, Sansa had no one to turn to, and she felt grateful for the comfort the woman gave her.

The next day brought another customer and this one was different. Or perhaps Sansa was different already; what she had endured had made her submissive. He came from Russia, was an acquaintance of Peitho and his activities remained secret. He was talkative, though, praised her beauty and called her "my sweet sister". The Russian man was almost kind, compared to the fat man, but when he left, she realized the end of the following day would only bring another customer and she had no way out. There was only the brothel and more customers on the horizon.

She went back to the balcony, grabbed the guardrail and sat on it, looking at the city. Far away, there was the Red Mansion, almost invisible in the first hours of night. She had escaped from Joffrey's clutches, but every night, there was a different Joffrey knocking at her door. When she was younger, back in Saint Paul, her friend Jeyne Poole had told her once there were whores in a certain area of the town and she had explained Sansa what they were supposed to do. She remembered the shock she had felt. Whores would most likely go to Hell after their death, because of their behavior. _But this is Hell. Hell can't be worse than that. So where am I to go when I die?_

When Sansa had arrived in Grand Central Station two years ago, she had marveled at the sight of the station her favorite novel, _The House of Mirth_ , described in the opening scene. She had just forgotten that, Lily Bart, like most of Edith Wharton's heroines, ended up alone and unhappy. _So unhappy she only found relief in her own death. Should I jump before it is too late?_

A soft knock on her door made her shiver; she tried to regain her composure and quickly came back inside the room. When the door opened, she saw a frightened Peitho glancing at her and she feared the worst. The tall and slim madam was almost shaking in front of Sansa's customer. Peitho gave her a faint smile and let the man in. As an imposing figure obscured the light coming from the landing, Sansa's heart skipped a beat: she knew this huge man, with his face half-hidden by dark hair. He wore a large overcoat; an attempt to go through the streets unnoticed, as if a man as tall and as taciturn as the Hound could be inconspicuous. _And he knows me_ , she thought. _He talked to me, frightened me, laughed at me, but that's not enough: now he wants this to happen. Or maybe Joffrey sent him to humiliate me._

As Peitho shut the door, Sansa mumbled _'Good evening'_ and her voice sounded like the squeak of a mouse. The Hound didn't answer and kept staring at her. Then he moved, as if he had changed his mind and, turning his back to her, he began to look for something. Wordlessly, he observed the walls of the room as if they could hide some treasure.

"It must be somewhere," he whispered to himself. "There is always..."

He gave a sigh of relief and pointed at the wall: on the left side of the door, there was a small hole she had never noticed before, because it was hidden by a bronze statuette displayed on the console table. The Hound seemed almost triumphant when he looked at her. Then he removed his overcoat and put it there, to make sure nobody could see what was to happen in Sansa's bedroom.

Terrified, she realized at the same time somebody could have been observing her the nights before and no one could help her if the Hound meant to hurt her. A fit of rage was very likely. _He's always drunk. He likes to frighten me. And he's a killer; he never tried to hide it._

When he stopped in front of her, she was shaking like a leaf. He towered above Sansa and scrutinized her. Perhaps he was taking his time. She wondered if men took as much pleasure eyeing women greedily as sleeping with them. Pig had looked at her for a long time, as well. But Pig, as heavy as he was, wasn't a war veteran like the Hound; he didn't make a living out of beating up people who were in debt to the Lannister family. The Hound's big hands could crush her if he decided to. And the pain she had been through with Pig, when he had beaten her, would seem a flick in comparison.

She clung to Peitho's advices, despite her fear, and tried to stay still, her back straight, like a soldier ready for the parade.

"Forget about modesty," Peitho had said with a hint of foreign accent. "Men want to see you. Sight is the most important sense in our trade. So let them have a look at you and keep your back straight. You're a beautiful girl and that's why they're here."

Instead of feeling beautiful, she was miserable and desperate. She had had this opportunity to jump, a short while ago and she had not seized it. At least she was sure this night would gave her the strength to leap into the void. Before long, she would be lying on the asphalt, thirty feet below.

"Please sit down," she stammered, shakily gesturing to the armchair placed between the four-poster bed and the balcony.

The large, brand-new leather armchair was typical of the fashionable style of the moment; one could imagine its amber-colored leather and its soft curves in the offices of the last floor of a skyscraper. Sansa felt like it revealed the excesses of the era: the armchair was far too big, and its leathery scent lingered in the air, no matter how often she opened the French door leading to the balcony.

In three long strides, he reached the armchair, sat down casually and fixed his eyes on her again. Ill-at-ease, she turned and walked to the phonograph, replaced Allegri's Miserere in its sleeve and chose _You'd be surprised_ , by Irving Berlin. _A joyful tune: I need it. I need to listen to the music and to forget who's in front of me._

As the first notes flooded in the large bedroom, his raspy voice made her shiver.

"What is it? What happened to your back?"

 _He has seen the cuts._ She wasn't sure she could explain to a customer what another customer had done to her. Baelish and Peitho wouldn't be pleased.

"It's nothing. Nothing at all."

"Come here and tell me who did that to you," he commanded.

She left the phonograph and went back to the place where he was sitting; she kept her distance though and, following Peitho's advice, she stopped two yards before the armchair, so that he couldn't touch her.

"What happened?" he asked again, narrowing his eyes.

He was tall enough to make the oversized armchair look strangely small; this realization didn't comfort her and she wished she could disappear. She took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. I'm going to stop the phonograph and put the needle back-"

"Forget about it," he rasped. "You have gashes on your back. What happened?"

Losing patience, he stood up and she flinched at once. Before she could react, he grabbed her shoulders, made her spin on her heels and held her upper arms firmly.

"You can't touch me," she protested. "Peitho said-"

"I don't care what the blond whore said. Obviously someone did touch you. Now tell me what happened."

He was staring at the long gashes Pig's belt had made on the top of her back. _I should have put another dress on, instead of some stupid fancy dress with straps._ At the same time, she knew she couldn't wear any dress when she was supposed to dance. All the clothes she had for that purpose were more or less like the old rose dress she had chosen that night: they revealed her shoulders, the top of her back and they had a low neckline.

Feeling his breath on her neck, she decided she would gave him the piece of information he required and she hoped he would be satisfied enough to let her go.

"Someone beat me," she said plainly.

"Who did that to you?"

"I- I didn't obey and he beat me," she explained. "I deserved it."

Slightly turning her head, she saw his large shoulder and a part of his hideous scars.

"I didn't ask you what you did. Look at me and tell me who did that to you."

The pressure on her upper arms vanished and she turned around. He was towering above her again; she backed away and he immediately stepped forward, until he was flush with her.

"This is a strange kind of dance we're dancing, girl. Who?" he insisted. "His name."

"I think his name is Gerald Halder. He has a restaurant on 8th Avenue."

"As if I didn't know who Gerald Halder is," he said briskly.

He walked to the console table where he had left his coat and when he came back to her, he was carrying a small pot.

"Ointment," he said. "From Pycelle. Thought it could be useful. What did you mean when you said you didn't obey?"

He cupped her chin and forced her to lock eyes with him. Her eyes flickered on his face, trying to avoid the burns disfiguring the Hound so that she could focus on his grey eyes instead.

"He was my first customer and he had paid a lot of money to see me dancing and singing, so when I refused to dance... he got mad at me."

"The little bird rebelling... What a topsy-turvy world we live in," he commented, chuckling darkly.

His familiarity didn't please her, nor did his ironic tone; Sansa tried to wriggle away from him, but he tightened his grip.

"I didn't rebel," she explained, furious. "I just didn't want to wiggle in front of him."

"Good. I don't give a shit about your dancing skills. Hold the jar for me, will you?"

With that, he put the ointment in her hand, grabbed her shoulders, made her turn around and began to button-down her dress.

"What are you doing?" she protested.

"I'm tending to your cuts, girl. Hold your dress."

One hand clutching to the front of her dress and the other one holding the small jar, she waited as he applied the ointment on her back. All this was nonsense: her Russian customer had seen the top of her back but he had decided to ignore it. Things were supposed to happen this way. Her customers paid to watch her dance until they could use her as a plaything, not to take care of her wounded back. _Or maybe it's a trick and it's worse than I thought. He tries to gain my confidence before hurting me._ His gesture was surprisingly more delicate and more careful than she expected, but she forbid herself to think about it.

When it was over, he buttoned up her dress. He fumbled with the buttons, whispering expletives right in her shoulder-blades. He pulled the flimsy fabric in such a way she thought he would tear it. _Good God, what is he doing?_ He sighed deeply, then he went back to the armchair and extended his arm to pat the edge of the bed. She sat down, an interrogative look in her eyes. _His scars are less frightening than his behavior._

"You don't want me to dance?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Frankly, I don't give a fuck about it."

Sansa felt slightly vexed by his remark and she stared at her hands resting in her lap, before raising her gaze to him. The Hound had ensconced himself in the large armchair, his legs open and one elbow digging into the armrest. For the first time since he had come in, she noticed an amount of details her fear had relegated to the background: his shoes needed a good polish and he wore a pair of woolen grey trousers with a matching waistcoat. He had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt he didn't take the trouble to button up. From his clothes emanated a smell of light tobacco and whiskey that overcame the heady scent of leather. He was now observing her, his scars partly hidden by his long dark thin hair. _He most likely didn't cut his hair since his demobilization._

Suddenly, she realized the phonograph was silent and she stood up abruptly.

"I- I have to- If they don't hear music coming from my room..." she explained, hurrying to the phonograph.

When she turned around, after the brass wind of _Yes! We have no bananas!_ began to play, he was pushing himself from his seat.

"Do you have something to eat?"

Her eyes widened in surprise, as she watched him wrapping his left arm around one of the columns of the bed and leaning against it. His question left her speechless, until she remembered the box of chocolates her Russian customer had given her. Mimicking the movements of a caged bird, she came and went in the room, trying to remember where she had put the present brought by her previous guest. It was not on the console table, nor in the closet; she finally remembered she had put it away in the shelve above the desk and let out a sigh. The box came from a confectioner where her mother used to buy candied chestnuts for Christmas; the sight of the baby-blue ribbon and the coat of arms adorning the wrapping paper had been a shock for Sansa and she had decided to save the chocolates in order to savor them later.

"I have these sweets," she offered, holding out the box.

He took the box, opened it and shoved a chocolate candy in his mouth without further ado, before going back to his seat. She followed him after a while and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Did Joffrey send you?" she asked as he gobbled another chocolate.

"Fuck Joffrey," he mumbled.

"I thought you had come to... keep a close eye on me and make a report."

He snorted, then thrust his hand in the box of chocolates again.

"You don't want me to dance, you say you're not here to spy on me, so why did you come?" she asked again.

Her high-pitched voice revealed her exasperation; he looked straight in her eyes and, forgetting about the chocolates, he leaned forward so that his head was at arm's length of her knees.

"I'm your way out, girl."

He had uttered these words in such a way it sounded more like a threat. Sansa must have watched her with suspicion for he added soon after: "You don't trust me, do you?"

"You work for them", she replied. "I'm not very experienced but I've come to learn that most of the time, your loyalty lies with the person who pays you."

"Littlefinger gave you this beautiful room and this expensive dress you wear, but unless you have a vocation for fucking doddering old farts, you can't be loyal to him."

His mocking tone and his bad manners infuriated her. _Maybe he took it upon himself and came here to humiliate me without telling Joffrey._ The phonograph went silent again and she jumped at the chance to put some distance between her and the Hound. _Is it possible that he's sincere? No, don't be so naïve._ She chose _All by myself_ before realizing he could take it badly or just laugh at her.

_I'm so unhappy_

_What'll I do?_

_I long for somebody who_

_Will sympathize with me_

Slowly, almost reluctantly, she turned around to face the Hound and she found him so close behind her she could have bumped into him. Was his attitude threatening or did he leer at her? She couldn't decide and therefore she averted her eyes, feeling a sudden and unpleasant warmth on her cheeks.

"Is this life what you want?" he asked with rudeness. "Locked in this place among a bunch of sluts who are either stupid or mad, or maybe both... with men eyeballing you..."

He didn't seem to realize that he was himself ogling her. Sansa swallowed hard, eyes downcast, observing his shadow that engulfed her feet and her ankles.

"Look at me and tell me this is the life you want. Being their plaything and all that shit," he spat. "Are you so foolish you didn't understand what they're going to do to you?"

Sensing he was losing his temper, she raised her gaze and realized how serious his grey eyes had become.

"Why would you help me?" she whispered.

The Hound probably didn't expect her to ask him about his motivations for his self-confidence vanished and he shrugged like a little boy who didn't learn his lesson.

"I want to leave," he confessed. "Start a new life."

For the first time since he had passed the threshold, he looked ill-at-ease.

"And it's a fucking good deed," he added with a shrug.

"Will you... take me back to Minnesota?" she asked, hesitating.

"Minnesota is a very bad idea. The Lannisters have connections out there: they'll find you in no time at all, bring you back here... and they would kill me. We should go to Europe. South America, perhaps."

Thoughtfully, he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the intricate pattern of the oriental rug at his feet.

"But how?" Sansa inquired. "I don't have anything."

 _If he thinks I can pay his one-way ticket to Europe by selling my mother's jewels, he's wrong._ Cersei had made sure Sansa had nothing left except her own clothes.

"I know. I'll try to find enough money to buy tickets. That's the biggest problem. Until then, you play your part and I play mine."

His seriousness didn't disperse her doubts, though: leaning back against the small table where the phonograph had been placed, she felt the urge to question his offer again.

"How can I be sure you're not fooling me?"

Hands still in his pockets, he snorted and stepped forward so that when he turned slightly, his elbow nudged her arm in an attempt to make her react. Her back stiffened.

"How can I be sure you're not going to tell Baelish I plan to leave my employers but not before stealing from them, once I'll walk away?" he said in echo. "I'm taking more risks than you in this, girl. And I remember you're bad at keeping secrets."

His reproach felt like a stab and she bit her lip, wishing that the tears pooling in the corner of her eyes would not – not now – roll down her cheeks. Right after Robert's death, Sansa had been the first to draw Cersei's attention on her parents' suspicion and on their plan to go back to Saint Paul. She had confided in Cersei like a silly little girl who didn't want to leave the lifestyle she had in New York. _And three weeks later, they were dead._

_I'd love to rest my weary head on somebody's shoulder_

_I hate to grow older_

_All by myself_

The last verse of the song invited her to trust him, but she remained silent.

"Very well," he said, "this is the life you want. I'm done here, girl."

"No," she replied. "When- When can we leave?"

"I don't know yet. This is the end of the song, little bird."

Turning around again, she replaced the 78 rpm, rolling her eyes. She hated that stupid nickname he had given her when she lived in the Red Mansion. _As derogatory as Joffrey's tone when he calls him 'Dog'._

"Show me that window," he ordered. "I have to know if we can use it."

He followed her on the balcony and he shook his head when he realized it was located on the facade.

"There's another balcony," she explained, leading him to the adjoining bathroom.

He whistled when he saw the claw-footed tub and the ornamental tiling, then he felt the silken fabric of her négligé hanging on a hook. _God, he's so rude._ She kept her chin up and showed him the other french window, much more narrow than the other one. He opened it and inspected the balcony overlooking the back-alley.

"This one is better," he commented. "You can sneak out this way."

"I'm scared of heights," she protested.

Leaning back against the window frame, he cursed, seemingly as exasperated by her manners as she was by his. "Look at me," he rasped, his palms turned to the ceiling like two weighing scales.

"Here is your fear of heights and here are the nights with dirty old men that await you. What do you choose?"

"Why are you so rude?"

The song's end exempted him from answering and he motioned her towards the bedroom with an incline of his head.

"We should stay here," he suggested, once they were standing by the phonograph."You're skinny. Do they give you enough food?"

She said yes, then picked another sleeve.

"Did they beat you? I mean this bastard, Littlefinger, and the blond whore ruling this place."

"No, they didn't."

"Are you sure?" he insisted. "You'd better tell me the truth."

"No, they didn't. The fat man beat me, that's all."

He laughed softly at her answer and it sounded contemptuous, almost saturnine.

"What happened, exactly?"

"I'm not sure I have a right to tell you," she answered.

Discretion about the customers was another of Peitho's advices. _A whore is like a doctor_ , she had said. _You can't reveal the other people's secrets._

"You'd better tell me," he growled.

"I told you I refused to dance. I was crying and I didn't please him. So he took his belt and beat me."

She spoke with such a detachment one could have said it was not her story but someone else's.

"Did he took your maidenhood?"

"No, he didn't."

As he stayed silent for a while, she understood this information was what he precisely wanted. Why were men so obsessed with virginity, she couldn't tell. It seemed to her that men wanted to sleep with every woman and even paid for it, but the idea of maidenhood – how to make sure your daughter or sister keeps it, how to take it from a girl – drove them mad. This was absurd, as well.

The rest of the hour he had paid for went by almost silently, until she looked at the clock.

"It's over," she said coldly.

Without looking at her, he walked to the console table and put on his overcoat.

"Will you come back?" she asked, while he stood with his back to her.

She didn't really mean it: it was more some sort of curiosity, yet she couldn't take it back. He turned around and stared at her for a while, puzzled, weighing the pros and the cons. She wanted to add something, to tell him it didn't matter, but words were stuck in her throat. His expression was unreadable, but finally his grey eyes met hers.

"I'll come back soon. Now go to bed."

Sansa stood in his way but he stepped forward, imagining she would move aside so that he could reach the door; she stayed still and he stopped in front of her.

"What?" he growled.

She locked eyes with him.

"Your offer is not a lie or trick, is it?" she asked.

"No, it's not."

She nodded and let her eyes fall away. Noticing the crease on his waistcoat, she mechanically tugged at the seam. It was nothing but the mindless gesture of a girl who liked to put things in order but she saw him stiffening. Not frowning or grumbling like he used to, but stiffening as if her touch made him uncomfortable. _Nobody has kind thoughts for him_ , she realized and that idea aroused her compassion. She moved aside and let him walk to the door.

"Go to bed, now," he insisted, glancing at her before leaving the bedroom.

The noise of the door closing behind him made her shiver. She was so tired she could have fallen asleep in ordinary circumstances, but this wasn't ordinary; disobeying, she ran to the balcony overlooking the street. She needed fresh air and the raw light of the street lamps to realize what had just happen was true.

Sansa heard a creaking noise below, then the front door slammed and she saw him getting out of the brothel and walking in the street. A vagrant went after the Hound but his long strides allowed him to outdistance the old man. At the end of the street, he turned right and disappeared. She looked at the street, rather quiet in the first hours of the night. Later on, next morning, it would be crowded with passers-by. There would be children playing and screaming, but right now the street was hers, as the vagrant was huddled in some corner.

She jumped at the soft knock she heard on the door, then she turned around: Peitho appeared on the threshold and joined her on the balcony. The madam, wearing a green taffeta dress, had sleepy eyes.

"I was worried," the Russian woman confessed, grabbing her lower arm. "This man scares me. I asked him if everything was all right when I met him downstairs. Do you know what he answered? He said 'The girl was docile' and he left. I thought American veterans were more... chivalrous."

"How do you know he's a veteran?" Sansa inquired.

"His horrible burns on his face, of course! And there's something about him-"

Sansa shook her head.

"It's true he fought in Europe, Peitho, but he didn't got his scars during the Great War."

"Oh really? I thought he was like these men French people call _'gueule cassée'_. There were so many men like him when I lived in Paris, at the end of the Great War. What's the English word for _'gueule cassée'_ by the way?"

Since she knew Sansa had learned French when she was in Saint Paul, Peitho always asked her that sort of questions.

"I've heard that expression once," Sansa answered, sighing deeply. "One of my brother's friends, a man we called the GreatJon used it... I don't think we have an equivalent in English. We simply say 'disfigured war veteran'."

"How did he got his scars?" Peitho insisted, elbowing her in a familiar way.

"When he was a child, his older brother burnt his face."

"You know him well," the madam commented.

"No, not that much. He works for the Lannisters; that's how I met him. He's one of their henchmen."

That was how she would describe him, though it didn't satisfy her. Her guest kept a shadowy side she couldn't characterize, nor understand.

"So how was it?" Peitho asked. "He scared me when he said you had been docile."

 _Be careful, now._ As kind as she was with her, the madam was sly and well-versed in falsehood; she could tell if someone was sincere or not. But Sansa's stay in the Red Mansion had taught her how to lie.

"As he said, I was docile," she explained. "I danced, that's all."

"Welcome in to Baelish's kingdom of absurd," Peitho commented. "This man is so weird... So he didn't hurt you?"

She shook her head.

"He is frightening, that's true, but... I'm fine."

Peitho's gaze was full of concern.

"Poor child," she said. "Baelish will come tomorrow morning. I'll talk to him. Perhaps I have a plan for us. We're the same, you and I."

She hugged her and Sansa smelt a fragrance of bergamot and oakmoss. The madam usually drenched herself in perfumes.

"I'm going to take good care of you, you'll see," Peitho promised. "What's this smell?"

Peitho was sniffing, a suspicious look on her beautiful face.

"His smell, I guess," she sighed.

It was camphor; she hadn't noticed it when he had applied the ointment on her back, because she was so frightened, but now she was sure. Peitho shrugged and mumbled something about American men and hygiene.

"You love this balcony, right?" the woman suddenly asked, smiling at her.

_Not for the reasons you imagine._

"I'll talk to Baelish," she repeated. "He'll love my plan for us."

She left Sansa's room, the rustle of her skirts showing how thrilled she was.

* * *

At dawn, realizing she couldn't go back to sleep, Sansa got up and looked at the street again. Everything was silent, in the first hours of the day. A few hours ago, she had decided to leap into the void. Eyes closed, she listened to the calm, then opened her eyes again and gazed at the asphalt. _Thirty feet below. A quick death. Someday perhaps, but not now._ She wanted to know more about this man who had come to visit her. Before leaving the balcony, she noticed how the sky was red on the horizon and she suddenly remembered what her nanny told her when she was a child:

_Red sky at morning, sailors take warning_

_Red sky at night, sailors' delight_

A storm was approaching. Sansa went back to her huge bed and huddled under the blankets. _Play your part and I'll play mine_ , he had said. 

* * *

Among his numerous habits – getting up at dawn, eat spare ribs for dinner, visit a brothel once a week – there was one Gerald Halder especially loved. Every night, he would go to the warehouse filled with casks of spirits he possessed. There were some beer barrels too, though beer wasn't one of his specialties.

The restaurant his father had left to him twenty-six years ago was thriving and allowed him to put money into what was the most profitable activity: selling alcohol. Gerald Halder was proud to offer his customers the largest range of spirits one could find in New York, on his unofficial wine list: you could drink in the backroom of his restaurant that incredible Irish whiskey the Lannisters imported, Italian wines or moonshine coming from Tenessee, of course, like in every decent speakeasy, but what made him so proud were the rare alcohols he possessed and stored in his warehouse. You couldn't taste the spirits Norwegian and Ukrainian immigrants made in the bathtub of their insanitary one-bedroom flat of the Lower East Side – some beverages so strong they burned your throat and left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue – unless you bought them from Gerald Halder. _Every damn community seems to have its own recipe to distil strong and cheap alcohol_ , he thought, smiling a lopsided smile.

In Manhattan, as far as these strange and exotic homemade spirits were concerned, he had no serious rival. It didn't mean he had no worries, of course not.

The war between the different bootleggers had devastated his trade: with an increased presence of the coastguards and the police operation Stannis Baratheon had carried out in New Jersey, getting imported whiskey was more and more uncertain. And there were the police officers: Gerald was sometimes ashamed to admit it was difficult to know which palm he could grease and which officers were useless. To top it all off, the New Yorkers were rather anxious about their future. _That is to say the workers, the clerks who lived from hand to mouth... The upper class, the businessmen have never been that rich and they were eager to live life to the full._ These rich customers were the ones Gerald Holder tried to seduce: they wanted to mix with the riffraff when they passed the threshold of his restaurant and booze was the secret ingredient of an unforgettable evening.

Despite the lacklustre context, he harbored the hope of better days with the coastguards' underachievement in New Jersey – they had seized a large part of the whiskey the Lannisters imported but their henchmen had managed to escape. The support of Mace Tyrell, the successful manufacturer of the South, to the Lannisters would certainly help: if the young Joffrey Baratheon became the next governor thanks to his father-in-law's support, Gerald doubted of the police's ability to enforce the Volstead Act.

Such a prospect made him smirk, as he moved his paunchy figure between the rows of barrels. Making more money meant indulge himself in going back to the brothel and seeing again that pretentious young lady who had refused to dance for him at first. The memory of her screams, when his belt had hit the smooth skin of her back was enough to make his cock harden. Next time he saw her, he wouldn't ask for a dance. _Oh no._

Above his head, rain drummed against the tin roof, but in the deserted warehouse, his footsteps echoed, amplifying his self-confidence. Joffrey Baratheon would soon dampen the zealous policemen's spirits and let people like him work in peace. And he would himself crush his rivals such as the Moore and the old Francis Tucket, those shitheads unable to tell gin from apple brandy: it was just a matter of time before he had them working for him and licking his boots.

In the quiet warehouse, he suddenly heard something: it didn't sound like a wind draft but like a rattle. There were mice sometimes and even rats, though he gave a bottle of cheap brandy for each dead rat or mouse his employees brought him. He went on, wanting to make sure everything was in order. A flashlight in his hand, he walked slowly, paying attention to the casks – the storm had damaged the electric lightning, plunging the warehouse into total darkness. He had enough Irish whiskey, but he was almost out of Italian wines and Joffrey Baratheon would demand some rare Italian wines if he got married...

The sound of a barrel rolling on the plain dirt floor made him jump. _What kind of mouse was it?_

"Emmett!" he shouted. "Is that you? Do you want to scare your boss to death, you scum bag?"

Gerald didn't get any answer, except from a gust of wind that lifted the metallic sheets above his head. He lifted his flashlight, getting closer to the barrel. The damn thing had stopped in the middle of a row, leaving a trail of red wine. _Sangiovese, most likely._ How could someone laugh at him and waste such a good wine?

"Who are you?" Gerald Halder growled. "Show me your face!"

His yell echoed under the tin roof but no answer came. The flashlight lit up the spot where Gerald stood, his chest heaving, but darkness engulfed the rest of the warehouse. Spinning on his heels, he frantically brandished his flashlight in all directions, but everything seemed quiet. He recorked the barrel and put it the right way round with a grunt, then he heard a cat meowing. _That stupid animal._

There were alley cats hanging around these days. The cook, that old fool, had seen fit to leave some scraps for the cats and now it was almost impossible to get rid of them. A black cat appeared in the reassuring circle of light: it was one these skinny animals that spent nights in the streets, fighting with its fellow creatures. One of its ears was torn-down but behind its long whiskers, Gerald could have sworn on his mother's life that it had a smug smile.

When the damn beast came to rub itself against his legs, Gerald rewarded its affection with a kick. The cat hissed and ran away as Gerald walked briskly to the warehouse's door. He hated cats and he hated even more the sensation of playing to be scared. _Fortunately, nobody saw me making a fool of myself... Everything seems perfectly quiet in this corner of the warehouse_ , he mused, wiping the beads of sweat rolling down his temples. _It must be that storm raging outside that got on my nerves._ Gerald sighed deeply as he put his hand on the doorknob. _Everything is in order. Everything-_

An iron grip on his shoulder made him squeak, then a forceful arm thrust him out against the metallic door. Gerald grunted in pain, mechanically bringing his hands to his knee. As he lay on the ground, he felt the cold wind on his back. He had dropped his flashlight and whoever his assailant was, that bastard made sure Gerald couldn't reach the electric device. A deft kick sent the flashlight further and it ended up lighting the casks of Irish whiskey.

"Who are you?" he asked. "What do you want?"

A kick in his ribs answered to his question. Gerald screamed, his protestations echoing the howling wind.

"Jimmy, is that you?" he tried again, on a ragged breath. "I know I shouldn't have fired you, not like that, but I couldn't-"

A blow to the genitals cut him off. Despite the excruciating pain he felt and the sensation that he was about to shit his pants, Gerald shielded his face with his arm and raised his eyes nonetheless. He didn't really see his attacker in the darkness, but this huge, threatening figure was not Jimmy's. It couldn't be one of the men who held something against him either. _So who is he? I don't know that man._ The realization scared him even more.

"What do you want?" he begged.

The man remained silent but squatted in front of him, grabbed his chin and shoved a rag inside his mouth. Gerald tried to protest, shook his head and flailed but resistance was useless. Seemingly losing interest for his victim's face, the man grasped his ankle and dragged him towards the other end of the warehouse.

_Far from the door, somewhere nobody can hear my screams._


	2. Blush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh no!" Peitho exclaimed, her contralto voice saturated with exasperation. "She's blushing again! Blushing is like sucking your thumb, girl. A nasty fault you need to get rid of."  
> Baelish cleared his throat.  
> "No, no, no. I don't agree. Men like girls who blush like that. It's- I don't know... What?"  
> Peitho burst out laughing, then stopped when she detected a hint of vexation in her boss' gaze.  
> "Does it mean you-" she began, brow furrowed.  
> The madam looked at Baelish, then at Sansa.  
> "I didn't know you liked girls who blush," she pointed out, her voice revealing how disturbed she was.  
> "Well, yes, I like it," he confessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for xenophobic remarks.

Silence stretched in Petyr Baelish's office.

Sansa slowly walked to the phonograph, trying to catch her breath then she lifted the tone arm; with careful, unhurried movements, she put the record back in its sleeve and placed it on the table nearby, allowing herself a last moment of peace before facing Baelish's verdict.

"Come here," he said, looking at her over steepled fingers.

At first, she didn't move, as if she was paralyzed; her feet so eager to move whenever there was a chance to dance a Foxtrot in Saint Paul, still nimble a minute before when she danced accompanied by Irving Berlin's music, now seemed glued to the polished wooden floor. Sansa swallowed hard, made a tremendous effort and managed to step forward.

In front of her, Baelish was sitting behind his mahogany desk, a piece of furniture of which pomposity struck the girl. The owner of the brothel almost disappeared behind it and Sansa thought for a while that, apart from his hands, all she could see of him was his head: a triangular face with his pointed beard, sly eyes hesitating between gray and green. His dark hair with strands of gray were carefully combed and slicked.

"That's elegant," he commented casually. "Don't you think so, Peitho?" He glanced at the blond madam who was sitting on a green upholstered fainting couch, on the left side of the office. "The problem, my dear, is that we don't do elegance."

Sansa sheepishly looked at her feet.

"I know it's not your fault," he added, standing up and walking around his desk. "I know you learned classical dancing when you were younger – which is an asset, I have been told – and I know your dearest mother would never allow you to have a questionable behavior when you danced in Saint Paul's balls. But this is not a ball."

He now stood in front of her, so close she could smell his cologne, a weird mix of tangerine and wood, supposed to be sophisticated. She also noticed she was a bit taller than him.

"You're not here to find a husband, but to find a lover. A great deal of lovers, in fact. That makes quite a difference. You realize how expensive you are? Your fee is extremely high for a girl who only dances. I did it on purpose, of course, but your customers want to get their money's worth. You understand me?"

He cupped her chin, but she avoided his gaze and nodded.

"Oh no!" Peitho exclaimed, her contralto voice saturated with exasperation. "She's blushing again!"

Sansa wasn't aware of her red cheeks before the Russian woman complained about it. She bit her lip as the madam got on her feet and rolled her hips towards them.

"Blushing is like sucking your thumb, girl," Peitho scolded her gently. "A nasty fault you need to get rid of."

Baelish cleared his throat. "No, no, no. I don't agree. Men like girls who blush like that. It's- I don't know... What?"

Peitho burst out laughing, then stopped when she detected a hint of vexation in her boss' gaze.

"Does it mean you-" she began, brow furrowed. The madam looked at Baelish, then at Sansa. "I didn't know you liked girls who blush," she pointed out, her voice revealing how disturbed she was.

"Well, yes, I like it," he confessed.

The relationship between Peitho and Baelish was not secret – even Sansa had noticed it the day she had arrived – but the notion that Baelish liked things she couldn't give him apparently hurt his mistress. In moments of carelessness, the attitudes and the gestures Sansa had witnessed left little room for imagination: Peitho was undoubtedly brazen with her lover.

The blond madam glared at Baelish. _Is she mad at him or is it a trick she uses to test his affection for her?_ Sansa was confused. She couldn't tell if Peitho's annoyance was feigned or not, but she felt terribly uncomfortable all the same. _It's a nightmare. All this: Baelish's hoity-toity office, the dance they forced me to perform, that conversation. Nothing of this is real, except Irving Berlin's music._

However, the genius of her favorite composer couldn't save her from the awkward situation she was in: Baelish had just admitted he loved something that was at odds with Peitho's behavior, something Sansa had and now she wished she could hide away. As tension gradually filled the room, she closed her eyes and hoped that something – _anything_ – would prevent their impending argument. _The candlestick phone on the desk, for instance. Why does nobody call Baelish right now?_

"Very well," the man said, a fake smile on his face. "These red cheeks are not the reason why you're here. The main issue is that dance you showed us. At some point, you made me feel as if I was a judge in some stupid dance contest... This is not a dance contest!"

Eager to show his authority – and perhaps because he wanted to prove Peitho he didn't fuss over Sansa – he had spoken loudly, excessively articulating the last words.

"You have to be far more daring, to become a good dancer," he added. "But... if you manage to be daring and to blush at the same time, you're going to-"

He hesitated for a while and Sansa glanced at him, wondering why he didn't finish his sentence. She saw him peering at Peitho before focusing on her again.

"You're going to make a lot of money."

_I don't even get a look at this money._ That was the deal: she danced, she smiled, Baelish provided room and board but he kept the money she earned.

"I'll do my best," Sansa offered, hoping that this promise would allow her to go back upstairs.

"I don't want you to try," he protested, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her slightly. "I want you to get better and to mesmerize your customers."

Sansa stepped back so that he let go of her. She ignored if Peitho had seen her reaction, but the madam's flute-like voice immediately resonated under the coffered ceiling.

"We're not done yet, Petyr. Sansa had a problem with her first customer. This awful man hit her. Turn around, girl, show him."

Wordlessly, Sansa obeyed, wishing she would not end up with her back bared in front of Baelish. _Having the Hound looking at me was humiliating enough._ Baelish scrutinized the top of her back for a short while.

"That's nothing," he commented. "It's already healing."

Sansa felt her fingers curl into tight fists. _Nothing? Pig beat me, he insulted me and he took pleasure in doing so. Even the Hound was shocked. Not any man, the Hound, a war veteran, a henchman..._

"Why did he beat you, dear?" Baelish asked her, a hint of suspicion lingering on his tone.

She spun on her heels, slowly, gathered her thoughts and finally met his gaze.

"I- I was afraid," she began, shamefaced. "He scared me."

Baelish grinned, shaking his head. _He knows I don't tell him the truth._

"I refused to dance," she stated. "It won't happen again, Sir. I swear."

Remaining silent, he crossed his arms across his chest, in an attempt to seem more important than he really was. Sansa choked back tears.

"How was it with her other customers?" he finally asked Peitho.

"Fine," she replied. "Honestly, I think her first customer scared Sansa to death. When I asked Berdokhovski, he said he was delighted, even if she was shy. And that man who came two days ago... What's his name?"

"The Hound," Sansa replied.

"The Hound?" Baelish exclaimed, laughing. "The Hound came to see you dancing? Since when does he go to brothels for another purpose than fucking girls?"

Sansa looked daggers at him, but he didn't notice it since he was facing Peitho.

"Maybe the Hound will buy some tickets for some ballet, next time!" Baelish added, laughing at his own joke. "Strange things happen, these days."

"What's that name? The Hound?" Peitho asked with her customary eagerness to understand American English.

"It's a nickname, darling. Hounds are... hunting dogs."

She nodded, whispering to herself _'Hound, hunting dog'_ , like a little girl.

"What's his real name, then?" she suddenly asked Baelish.

"His real name is Sandor Clegane," Baelish sighed, "but we usually call him the Hound."

"I once knew a man whose name was Sandor," Peitho commented thoughtfully. "A Hungarian count I met in Paris. He was very good to me."

She took her blond braid between her thumb and forefinger and mindlessly stroked it.

"That's not the point," Baelish lectured his mistress. "Was he satisfied with Sansa's services?"

He turned to Peitho, ignoring Sansa as if he didn't trust her anymore; his behavior infuriated the girl.

"He liked it," Sansa answered defiantly.

Surprised, Baelish glanced at her.

"Petyr, she's telling you the truth. I asked him afterward and he told me she was docile. But it's so frightening for her," Peitho pleaded. "Alone in her bedroom with one man looking at her like that. It's dangerous."

Baelish raised one eyebrow. "That's the plan, dear. What I sell to a customer comes to this: one hour spent with a beautiful girl who dances and dances only for him, next to this huge bed. The customer wants her – at least if Miss Stark agrees and makes efforts – and he has the illusion that they could end up in bed."

_I'm nothing more than a piece of meat, for him._ The tears pooled again at the corner of her eyes and she had to breathe slowly to get rid of them.

"Sansa would feel so much better if she had an audience instead of being locked up with one man," Peitho explained, coming closer and wrapping her hand around the girl's waist. "I think this young lady is not daring enough because it's much more frightening to face one man's eyes. She fears to be hit again. If she danced on a stage, before dozens of men, it would be different."

As tall as Sansa, the blond madam leaned her forehead against the girl's temple in a cuddly gesture. Then, tightening her grip, she rested her head in the crook of Sansa's neck and cast a glance at Baelish. _God, what is she doing?_

"You said she's gifted, Petyr," Peitho added, brushing Sansa's side. "She can sing and dance and so can I. And we have girls here who can dance too. We have that meeting hall nobody uses. We could prepare a show and invite a lot of people."

Letting go of Sansa, she walked to Baelish and put her hand on his chest. A bold smile on her lips, she ducked her head to kiss his cheek. By the way he sighed deeply, Sansa could tell he enjoyed his mistress' touch.

"Sansa and I could sing and dance for them and the other girls would... entertain them, I suppose." Peitho's hand slid down Baelish's chest inch by inch, stopping waist-high, then she glanced around her shoulder and smiled at Sansa, biting her lip. "What do you think, child?"

"I- I suppose it would be... great," Sansa stammered, averting her eyes. She nonetheless understood that Peitho was nibbling at her lover's neck. _Disgusting._

"Petyr, do you like my idea?" the blond woman asked in a lascivious tone.

"I have to think about it."

As he stared insistently at Sansa while Peitho resumed her ministrations, the girl felt more and more uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I- I'll be in my room."

She turned around and walked to the door, but she couldn't help hearing their voices as she was on the threshold of the office.

"Was she blushing again?" Peitho asked, her back to Sansa.

"Of course she was!" Baelish replied, laughing.

Closing her eyes, she shut the door behind her, leaned her back against it and allowed herself to take a deep breath once she was in the corridor. _This is a nightmare, even if Baelish agrees with Peitho's plan. Only one person offered to help me leave this awful place and it had to be the Hound. Why does the only man who pities me so rude and stubborn and..._ She opened her eyes and felt even more ill-at-ease than she was inside the office.

Five pairs of eyes looked hard at her: a representative sample of the girls living and working in the brothel was watching her as Sansa reflected on her situation. _My life unravels and they can see it._ Putting on a brave face, Sansa began to observe her companions. The tall, chesty dark-haired girl was Viola; Sansa knew that Viola didn't like her, but she had not figured out why they should be enemies. The two fair-haired women were a bit older and they were sisters. She remembered their names were Dorothy and Lois, though she couldn't tell the difference between them. The chubby woman who was always grinning went by the name of Jo and the little one with almond-shaped eyes and brown hair was Meg, a girl of eighteen.

"What do you want?" Sansa asked them.

"Hush," Viola ordered, "get out, stuck up little girl."

Pushing Sansa out of her way, she leaned against the door and pricked up her ears.

"We're listening to their conversation," Meg explained, with a smile. "Want to stay?"

Sansa hesitated; it was something rude, something her mother wouldn't approve and after the unpleasant discussion with Baelish, she only wanted to hide away in her room and to forget about the rest of the world; still a little voice told her her life would be a bit less difficult if she made friends with the other persons living in the brothel. She looked at the girls gathered in front of the door and she stood shyly by Meg, avoiding Viola's angry gaze.

Behind the door, Baelish seemed reluctant and countered Peitho's arguments one by one; organizing a show in the brothel would be expensive and it could be a failure. Who would pay if nobody came to see the girls? According to him, the girls themselves were a problem: he acknowledged Peitho and Sansa's talent, but he questioned the other girls' ability to dance.

"That fat cow of Josephine, do you really picture her on a stage?" he asked his mistress.

On the other side of the door, Jo fumed, to the blond sisters' great pleasure. Viola shushed them all.

"Jo has always customers, which means men like her," Peitho protested. "She can sit with our customers and entertain them during the show. That's not the issue."

"What about the other ones? Edna, for example. Or Mary? Even Viola-"

When she heard her name, the tall brunette stiffened.

"Viola makes a lot of money, but did you look at her? She's... common, Peitho. Very common. She's useless on a stage."

"I've heard enough," Viola hissed and she abruptly left the girls.

The blond sisters repressed a chuckle, then they all tried to listen to the conversation inside the office.

"Can you hear something?" Jo whispered, leaning her big head against the door.

Sansa didn't detect any sound except muffled voices. _Did they realize we're listening to them?_ She stepped back immediately, ready to run upstairs if Baelish stormed out of his office, but nothing happened. Meg's eyes suddenly widened then the blond sisters chuckled again and they began to make faces. Jo leaned back against the door and mimicked a woman who was fainting. _Oh no, not fainting,_ Sansa realized.

As the four girls repressed a hysterical laughter, doubled up, Sansa looked at them. _They seem so free, so careless._ Jo gave the signal and they all walked back to the stairs.

"Tell us, Miss Sansa, are you shocked?" Jo provocatively asked her. "That's why couches are made for. Fucking!"

"Look at her, she's blushing again," Dorothy said – or maybe it was Lois.

"We should call you 'Blush'," Jo went on, patting Sansa's shoulder. "A perfect name for you."

They climbed the flight of stairs wordlessly; on the landing, Viola was waiting for them, tight-lipped. She stared at them for a while, before announcing:

"I'm tired of this place. I can't stand that stupid Russian woman with a stupid Russian name."

"Peitho is not a Russian name," Sansa said, thinking out loud.

They all turned to her and Viola folded her arms.

"I'm sorry, Miss," she began, looking daggers at Sansa. "I'm not sure I understood what you mean. She's Russian, she has a Russian name."

"No, it's not Russian." Surprised by her own boldness, Sansa swallowed painfully, trying to held Viola's gaze. "It's a Greek name. Peitho is... a goddess. She embodies persuasion."

A lesson which had been so difficult to learn when she was fifteen because she had no particular interest in Mythology had popped up in her mind. _So abruptly, because now that name, 'Peitho' means something to me_. Jo whistled, expressing her admiration. _Or perhaps irony._

"I suppose Peitho chose that name because she's good at convincing people," Sansa added, feeling the urge to say something. "That's what she was doing with Baelish. Convincing him... one way or the other."

Now she had the impression that she had trapped herself.

"Look at her," Viola spat. "A perfect Miss Know-it-all! Do you think your good manners and your... Greek lessons will save you the day Baelish sells your maidenhood? You think you're better because you grew up in a pretty house, but you'll end up on your back all the same. You're just a collection of holes, like the rest of us."

Her chest heaving, Viola turned around and ran to her room. When she finally dared to look at the other girls, Sansa read disapprobation in Jo's eyes, as well as in the blond sisters'.

"I never said I was better than you," she offered, "never even thought I was."

A distrustful silence welcomed her words and the three of them walked away. Meg's hand brushed Sansa's forearm.

"Don't worry. They're always like that when a new girl arrives."

"Why is Viola so angry at me?" Sansa asked.

"Can we go to your room? I promise I'll tell you."

Meg's almond-shaped eyes were full of interest. Sansa nodded: at least, there was a person in this awful place who didn't hate her or find her useless. Meg close on her heels, Sansa walked to the second door on the landing then she stepped aside to let her guest come in first. As soon as Sansa closed the door, Meg marveled at the beautiful bedroom.

"What a large room!" she exclaimed. "And the furniture... it's so..."

_So attention-getting._ There had been a time when the conspicuous consumption she saw in the Red Mansion fascinated her, as well. This enthrallment might have been strong – as powerful and as destructive as her illusions – but it had disappeared bit by bit, as the creases on her father's forehead deepened. Unaware of Sansa's bitter thoughts, the brown-haired girl seemed bewildered; she went from the four-poster bed to the console table, from the large closet to the balcony. She finally glanced at Sansa, waiting for her approval before opening the bathroom door.

"Oh, God, you have your own bathroom! With a real bathtub... So Edna was right-"

"What did Edna say?" Sansa inquired.

"She said the plumbers and the workers who came here had completely transformed the room. God, it's so beautiful. I love this cheval mirror! And you even have a phonograph."

Sansa sat on the edge of the bed as Meg mechanically brushed the copper-colored surface of the horn; then, changing her mind, she walked to the big leather armchair and collapsed on it. At the sight of her slender form sprawled on the huge armchair, Sansa giggled.

"You promised you would tell me why Viola is so angry with me," she told Meg.

Meg sat up and showed the room in a sweeping gesture.

"I'm sorry Meg, I don't get it," Sansa whispered.

"This room is the reason why she doesn't like you. Viola lived here before; she slept and she welcomed her customers here. Littlefinger gave her another room – smaller, of course – and prepared everything before your arrival."

There was a word the Hound had forgotten when he had described Sansa's companions. _Jealous. I don't know if they're stupid or mad, like he said, but they're jealous. And Baelish knew Joffrey wanted to get rid of me weeks before I was told._

"I understand why Viola is so furious," Sansa thoughtfully commented. "But I never wanted to live here. I wanted to go back home. North."

"But here you are," Meg replied, smiling encouragingly. "You'd better get used to Viola's insults because she is... resentful, you see? God, you live like a princess here... You know, life is not unpleasant in this house, but you have to respect the rules. Peitho is the queen: she rules the place, everyone obeys her. Then, they are the noble ones, the girls who make a lot of money: Viola, you, Mary, Edna. Sometimes the noble ones fight with each other, but in the end, the queen judges. So far, I think Peitho likes you, so she'll protect you."

"What about you? Are you some 'noble lady'?"

"Certainly not! I'm- I'm a... peasant, like Jo, like most of the girls. We work hard and the brothel wouldn't exist without us. But the likes of you make much more money."

"And Baelish, who is he?" Sansa asked again. "The king?"

Meg shook her head. "No, he's not the king. He's far above Peitho. Let's say he's God. He has the right to life and death on us."

Sansa remained silent for a while, pondering on Meg's words and staring at her hands folded in her lap. When she raised her gaze again, Meg was looking at the box of chocolates the Russian man had brought with him.

"I would gladly give you some, but my last customer ate everything," she explained. "He didn't left a single chocolate candy."

She had forgotten about the box after the Hound was gone and she had only thought of it the next morning, when she tidied her room. Lifting the bow lid, she had discovered it was empty. _How can he be so rude, so selfish? He didn't even offered me one._ She couldn't stand his manners. Everything about him infuriated her: the way he laughed at her, the way he ate her food or looked at her as if... _As if what?_ Meg cleared her voice, and Sansa quickly wipe the Hound out of her mind.

"What do you want to do, Sansa?" the brown-haired girl asked her.

"I'll have to find today's newspaper. It must be somewhere downstairs. Please wait for me. I'll bring it back here and you will tell me where you are from."

She ran downstairs then knocked at Baelish's office, but not before checking if Peitho had left him – the madam was giving orders for the supper in the kitchen. She asked for the newspaper and Baelish gave her the last edition of the _New York Times_ , even if he didn't understand why she demanded it everyday.

Once in her room, she sat down on her bed and opened the newspaper, without paying much attention to Meg who stared at the ceiling.

"What are you looking for?" Meg sounded slightly bored and Sansa felt the need to explain herself if she didn't want to look like a bluestocking.

"My father told me once the _New York Times'_ motto was _'All the news that's fit to print'_. I don't have any news from my brother. If something happens to him, his name will be here, somewhere. He has a hydroelectric power-plant in Minnesota: I believe his death would be fit to print."

As Sansa's eyes fluttered about, searching Robb's name in the articles, Meg left the big armchair and sat down next to her.

"You think your brother could be murdered?" Meg inquired.

Sansa forgot about the newspaper for a second and locked eyes with her.

"I thought I would be happy in this city, discovering a new world. I thought my parents would be by my side forever. And now they're dead."

"Murdered?"

Sansa didn't feel strong enough to utter a word and simply nodded. Meg patted her shoulder gently.

"Let me have a look, if you want," the girl offered. "Give me some of the pages and I'll help you."

Sansa shared the pages with Meg and she resumed her reading. _Nothing in the section dedicated to economics, nothing in..._

"Oh, this is so weird!" Meg nearly shouted.

Startled, Sansa sat up immediately.

"No, I swear it's not your brother," Meg reassured her. "It's a crime... My goodness..."

"What?"

"The man who was murdered," Meg replied, "you know him. He's one of your customers."

_No, don't tell me the Hound died in some back alley. I need him to escape..._ Sansa might have complained about him only minutes ago, the Hound had offered her his help: his bad manners didn't really matter as long as he kept his promise.

"Which one?" Sansa asked curtly.

"The first one. Gerald Halder. The one who owns a restaurant. Who owned, I should say."

_Pig?_ Pig had hit her, but it was strange to learn that he was dead now. Sansa couldn't say she was relieved, but she certainly didn't feel much compassion.

"Listen to this," Meg went on. " _'In the warehouse where the victim illegally stored wine barrels and casks of whiskey, the investigators found a red puddle...'_ " Glancing at Sansa, she looked like a little girl who pretended to be scared. " _'...but it was not some vintage wine from Italy. The victim laid in a pool of blood, probably beaten to death. A source familiar with the case claims that it could be a score-settling in the merciless war between the bootleggers.'_ Frightening, don't you think so?"

Sansa nodded and took the page from Meg's hands. _'Indescribable violence'_ , _'deep wounds'_ , _'the victim's face was beyond recognition'_ were the words that struck her. She suddenly realized the man who had beaten her back had suffered a horrible death and a sort of queasiness took hold of her. She went back to the other pages of the _New York Times_ , trying to forget the scene her imagination had begun to recreate. Pig was dead, which means she would never face him again, and Robb's name was nowhere to be found. _So he was safe and sound when they published this edition._ That was the most important.

After Meg had told her she came from a village located in Pennsylvania and hoped to make a lot of money before starting a new life, maybe with one of her customers who came to visit her once in a week, Sansa decided that she was not the only one who harbored illusions. _At least, I've lost some of mine._ Still, she didn't know what to think about the Hound's offer. If she began to trust him for real and he betrayed her, how would she get over? As much as she needed to confide in someone, she refused to open her heart to Meg; she barely knew her and the girl's talk about Sansa's bedroom suggested that she was too fascinated by riches not to be corruptible. _If Baelish asks her about me, she'll say everything for a new dress or a fur-lined coat._

Meg cast an envious look to the extravagant furniture before opening the door.

"You can come back anytime," Sansa said, eager to get on well with at least one girl.

"I will come back, you bet!"

From the place where she was standing, Sansa could see a part of the large wooden staircase, through the open door. A red-haired girl was slowly dusting down the baluster and the handrail; at first, Sansa wondered why she was moving so unhurriedly, but when the girl reached the landing, she had a better view of her figure and understood. _She's pregnant._ A pregnant woman seemed completely incongruous in a place like the brothel. Meg noticed her incredulous gaze, for she glanced around her shoulder.

"Who's that girl?" Sansa asked.

"Evie. She's a whore, too. She's in disgrace. Guess why."

Meg's insensitivity hurt Sansa. The red-haired girl kept cleaning the staircase and when she caught sight of Sansa, she smiled at her.

"Tell me she's not working as... a prostitute," Sansa whispered.

"Not anymore. But she still had customers a few weeks ago. She's mute," Meg whispered, with a knowing smile. "Seems that some men like that."

Sansa frowned, shocked by Meg's coldness and disturbed by the sight of this young woman with a round belly, working hard only weeks before the childbirth.

"You know she used to be one of your customers' steady?" Meg added, her almond-shaped eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Who? The dead one?"

Sansa's voice sounded more detached than she really was; she felt difficult not to focus on the red-haired girl. _She seems so young. Probably twenty or twenty-one._

"The scary one. That man who works for the Lannisters."

"The Hound?" Sansa whispered, frowning in disbelief.

"Hmm-hmm. He visited her once a week and one day, he disappeared."

Sansa was puzzled. The day she had been propelled in the shady world of the brothel, her life had been turned upside-down. The way she envisioned the relationships between men and women had changed dramatically. The myth of the charming prince was like a chipboard dungeon she had fancied during her childhood: the first months of her engagement with Joffrey had breached the tower and the shock of her new life in the brothel had crumbled it. Trampling these ruins and laughing at her, the men she had met during the last week all seemed pathetic and vile. Yet, she didn't know them outside of the brothel, she could imagine there were horrible men who behaved badly and visited whores, while most of the men avoided places like Baelish's house.

Perhaps the Hound's visit had disturbed her because she knew him before, because he was a familiar figure of her old life. Before her parents' death, she had heard of prostitutes; however, she thought only gangsters paid for their services. She shouldn't have been shocked to learn that the Hound frequented whores – that looked very much like the rude, violent Hound she had met in the Red Mansion – but meeting the girl he spent his nights with was something completely different. Forgetting about Meg, Sansa walked to the staircase and called the red-haired girl.

"Evie? Your name's Evie, right? Can I talk to you?"

Evie was surprised; she looked back at Sansa, hesitating.

"It won't be long and I will cover for you, if need be," Sansa said, smiling reassuringly.

"She's mute, she can't talk to you," Meg warned her with a hint of skepticism.

Sansa shrugged and smiled again at Evie, then led her to her bedroom. If the red-haired girl was fascinated by the embellishment, she didn't show it. She shyly sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing her cheap woolen dress and her apron. When Sansa glimpsed at her hands' skin – reddened and scraped by places – she felt ashamed for spending her days waiting for her next customer in a bedroom while Evie scrubbed floors. She nonetheless smiled again at her guest and walked to the closet. There was this fuzzy blanket she could give the red-haired girl; Sansa wouldn't miss it and it felt good to do something generous. _A change after days locked in my room, lamenting about my fate._

"This is for your child," Sansa said, holding out the folded blanket. "It won't be long, now."

Evie's eyes widened and she nodded gratefully, then she opened her mouth and tried to articulate something. Sansa understood it was _'Thank you'_ and she sat down next to the girl. She had thousands of questions churning in her head and none was easy to ask. Deciding she had nothing to lose, she took the plunge.

"Meg told me you know a man people call the Hound," she began, trying not to stammer. "He used to come here and visit you?" Evie nodded. "Is he- is he your child's father? Oh, my God, I'm sorry. This is so embarrassing!"

As Sansa hid her face in her hands, she felt Evie's fingers on her wrists; the girl gently took her hands in hers and put them on Sansa's lap. When she dared to lock eyes with her, the mix of amusement and tenderness in Evie's gaze struck her. The young woman finally shook her head, slowly and insistently.

"He's not the father?"

Evie mimicked the gesture of a person who throws something behind his shoulder, as if the Hound's visits had happened ages ago. _But do I really understand what she means?_ Then, always smiling, she pointed at Sansa.

"What?" she asked. "Yes he came to visit me. I- I danced for him."

Evie's knowing look surprised Sansa. _How could she know?_ The young woman shifted slightly and gestured with her right hand, using it as a puppet. Sansa watched her, trying to understand. Evie's fingers opened and curled in the air, like the mouth of an animal.

"A dog?" Sansa suggested. "Do you mean the Hound?"

Evie nodded and let her eyes fall on her lap for a second, gathering her thoughts. She curled and opened her fingers again, then touched her mouth.

"The Hound said..."

The young woman sitting by her side shook her head.

"He spoke? He told you something? What did he tell you?"

Evie didn't seem to agree with Sansa's interpretation and looked more and more frustrated. _People must think she's deaf or take her for a retarded person because she can't talk. It's so unfair._ Evie resumed her gesturing, in a desperate attempt.

"The Hound... told..."

She pointed at Sansa.

"He told you about me?"

Evie gave her a defeated look.

"I'm sorry, Evie. I'm sure we'll find a way-"

The young woman nodded shyly and took the blanket in her hands, a poor smile on her face. She pointed at the door, as if she wanted to say she had to go and to finish her chores.

"I really hope we'll find a way-" Sansa began tentatively.

Evie had almost reached the door and she held the blanket tight against her chest; turning around, she smiled and nodded. _Yes, we'll find a way._

* * *

The information the red-haired woman so eagerly wanted to tell her disturbed Sansa. _Why would the Hound talk to her about me?_ It didn't make sense and Evie had vehemently shaken her head at that idea. _So what did she mean?_ After her encounter with Evie, she spent most of the afternoon on her balcony, looking at the street. _Like some princess locked inside her tower_ , she mused. _Waiting for someone who has nothing to do with a knight. Scared by the dragon that could devour or consume me. I'm such a fool, sometimes._

She came back in her room as Peitho's voice echoed in the staircase. She rushed out of her room and came face to face with the tall blond-haired woman.

"I've changed my mind," she told Sansa. "I know I told you you didn't need to drink it, but..."

Peitho didn't finish her sentence and Sansa read it as a sign of embarrassment. She nonetheless shut the door and followed the blond woman. The madam stopped by the flight of stairs and called the girls whose rooms were on the third and fourth stories.

"Moontea-time, girls! I want everybody in the hall. Quick!"

Then she turned to Sansa and motioned her downstairs. Some of the girls were already waiting in the hall; Viola glared at Sansa and most of Baelish's employees ignored her. She finally joined Meg.

"You had an interesting conversation with the mute?" she asked Sansa. Her voice exuded irony and Meg didn't make the slightest effort to hide it.

"Well, she's nice," Sansa replied. "What is it?"

With an incline of her head, Sansa showed the large pot the cook had put on a table. Docilely, the girls walked in single file and took the cup filled with a steamy beverage the cook gave them.

"Peitho calls it Moontea. It prevents pregnancy, she says," Meg explained. "After the mute got knocked up, she freaked out and she decided we should all take this. Must be Russian."

"Russian shit," someone spat behind them.

"You're blushing again," Meg commented, nudging at Sansa.

Before she could realize what was happening, Sansa was in front of the cook – an old woman with a wrinkled face – who gave her a cup of the hot beverage. She looked at the yellowish water and walked to Peitho.

"Listen, I don't really need it," she told the blond woman. "As long as I don't- I mean as long as I only dance-"

The madam crossed her arms about her chest and sighed, before looking at Sansa straight in the eyes.

"Don't worry, child. That's just in case."

What Peitho's words suggested was so frightening that Sansa mechanically raised the cup to her lips and drank the bitter potion it contained. _Just in case._

"Good girl," she heard Peitho say and she felt a hand patting her shoulder.

She wasn't strong enough to stomach Peitho's revelation; the thought that she might actually need some abortive beverage made her sick, so she put the cup on a tray provided and ran upstairs, far from the other girls' wry smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know moontea is part of GRRM's world in ASOIAF, and rather incongruous in a modern AU, but I couldn't resist...


	3. Red morocco binding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of a sudden, she felt his hand on her right shoulder, the long fingers and the palm fitting the form of her joint; the warmth his hand provided made her relax a bit more until his callous thumb slipped between her skin and the strap of her dress. Then, he slowly made it slide off her shoulder. Sansa's heart skipped a beat and her back stiffened; she nonetheless let him do the same on her left shoulder.  
> Now that he had access to her back she thought he would run his fingers down her spine or something like this but nothing came. He watched her wordlessly and when the song finally ended, giving way to the crackle of the needle against the record, all she could hear was his breathing. That sound – his ragged breath behind her she heard despite the faint noises coming from the phonograph – disturbed her more than what had happened before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for foul language, violence against women and non con.

_No, I'm not nervous. It must be because I lack sleep. Or because of this stupid potion Peitho gives us: I'm pretty sure it has aftereffects. Why would I be nervous?_

"Are you alright, girl?" the Hound rasped, making her jump.

As she held the tone arm at this moment, the needle accidentally hurt the shellac surface of the record, causing a disharmonious sound. _Hope I didn't scratch it..._ Sucking in a deep breath, she spun on her heels and smiled cheerfully to her guest. It was worse than admitting that something actually disturbed her: he knew her smile was fake and he immediately pushed himself from the armchair, brow furrowed, then crossed the room.

"No," he whispered to himself, "not like that."

Sansa stood still, leaning against the table where the Kettelblack brothers had put Eddard's phonograph the day she had arrived in Baelish's brothel, her hands enjoying the comforting vibrations of _Do It Again_. She thought a piece by George Gershwin would help her calm down – even if she was _not_ nervous – but the Hound's looming presence crushed her hopes.

Tension had filled the room when he came in, only minutes ago, and all her efforts to settle down had been less successful than expected. He motioned her to the side with an incline of his head. _People talk to each other when they want something. Gentlemen politely ask permission. He stays silent and he only gestures_ , she complained to herself, moving aside nonetheless. Whether the Hound noticed her narrowed eyes or not, she couldn't say and she thought he probably didn't care. He unplugged the phonograph, lifted the device as if it was as light as a feather and turned to her.

"Hold it," he ordered, before putting the big phonograph in her hands.

She managed not to drop it on the rug despite the weight – her left knee securing the phonograph's precarious position – and she watched him carrying the solid wood table across the room. He stopped near the French window and placed the table there, before going back to Sansa. The expression on her face made him chuckle and he unburdened her wordlessly.

"Be careful," she begged. "It was my father's."

"It could be the pope's, Little Bird, I don't care. Your phonograph will be better here."

Even though she feared for the only possession Eddard had left her, the phonograph found its place by the French window and the Hound plugged it. Gershwin's music filled the room again as he triumphantly turned to her.

"This way you won't have to cross the room every time-"

"I didn't mind crossing the room," she countered. "I loved the way things were before. And the table feet left marks on the carpet."

He smiled a twitched half-smile, his scarred cheek unmoving while the right side came to life.

"Marks on the carpet," he snorted. "How scandalous."

He stared at her, shoving his hands in his pockets and enjoying her futile attempts to calm down. For a second, she wondered if her pointless anger put him in a good mood or if he was leering at her. None of these options reassured the girl. She was nervous, she couldn't help it and she didn't know why.

"I've got something for you," he said, walking to the console table.

When he moved past her, she smelt his scent – tobacco, whiskey, sweat – at odds with Berdokhovski's Cologne. At least her Russian customer was a man of taste. The Hound took a parcel he had kept in his overcoat and he brought it to her. She took in the newsprint wrapping tied with a string and muttered her thanks.

"Go ahead," he whispered, encouraging her to open it.

As she unwrapped the parcel, Sansa watched him out of the corner of her eyes. Even if he stood in front of her, he pretended to ignore the girl, his head turned to the French window as if he tried to catch a glimpse at something across the street, despite the darkness. _His turn to be nervous_ , she thought, and with that realization, all the anger and unease she had experienced since his arrival vanished.

Under her deft fingers, she felt the binding of three books well before seeing the red morocco. She smiled with anticipation at the smooth surface dyed in crimson but the sight of a roaring lion's motive on the spine made her gasp. _I've seen these books before. I know where they come from._ Showing the golden lion on the spine of the first book, she gave him an inquiring look.

"What?" he said, shrugging. "They don't read those books, anyhow. You did."

"You stole books from Cersei's library?"

"You think she will miss them? No she won't. You need them more than her, girl. If you try to make friends with the whores living here, they'll stuff your head with foolish ideas. You'd better stay in here and read."

She suddenly imagined the Hound walking to Cersei's library, on the _piano nobile_ of the Red Mansion, watching the bookshelves with a puzzled look and trying to figure out what books Sansa might like to read. In the end, she guessed he had chosen at random – there was a novel by Henry James, a book of poetry and the first volume of a  _History of Navigation_. He would probably give her some far-fetched arguments if she asked him why he had settled on these books – the novel was a doorstop so she would have _something to read_ for days, he was convinced a dainty girl like her would love poetry and had not realized the book contained only religious poems of the Elizabethan era and the _History of Navigation_ was supposed to perfect her education even if she didn't give a damn about boats – but she found his attention so adorable she couldn't help smiling.

"That's- that's very kind," she said, trying to lock eyes with him.

He avoided her gaze, for a change, and he shrugged. When she stepped forward, tentatively cupped his good cheek and put a shy kiss on it, he didn't move but he stiffened so abruptly she regretted it at once. She stayed on tip-toe for a few seconds, peering at him. The gray eyes challenged her. On her lips, she still had the sensation of his five o'clock shadow, that same beard that itched her fingers, and his scent was stronger when she stood in front of him, making her feel dizzy. At some point, she completely forgot why she was standing there, trying to put a kiss on his cheek and she recoiled suddenly, as if she had just did something inappropriate.

Stepping back, she bumped into one of the bed's column, saw the red morocco bindings on the console table and remembered. _He offered me books. Stolen books, maybe, but he did it for me._ She had received many gifts since her arrival: Baelish had offered her dresses and this huge bedroom, Berdokhovski had brought her chocolates and roses. _God, it was so different from this._

The day Berdokhovski had come back, Sansa had heard his voice – or his laughter – in the staircase, long before he knocked to her door; he was talking with Peitho, in English first, then in Russian. By the warm lilt of their voices, Sansa had understood they were chatting like two old friends and when she opened the door, Berdokhovski had extended his arms as if he wanted to hug her.

"My sweet sister!" he had exclaimed, grinning.

At that moment, Sansa decided that he deserved a nickname – less cruel than Pig's, but a nickname all the same – and _Sweet Sister_ , because it was at odds with his manly appearance and the varnish of respectability he tried to keep, would be perfect for him. Not that the man was ugly or unpleasant; on the contrary, everything about him was a bit too much.

Berdokhovski was rather handsome with his icy blue eyes and blond hair with strands of white; tall and slender for a man in his forties, he was well-dressed. He smiled a lot, talked a lot, was never shy about flattering Sansa. The expensive box of candies he had brought on his first visit and the pink roses he gave her that day suggested he would shower Sansa with gifts if he became a regular customer. Now that she thought about him again, she knew she couldn't be unfair with him: he did his best to make her feel comfortable. Berdokhovski even ventured on joking though her lack of reaction, it must have frustrated him.

When she began to dance, he smiled at her, but it never was with the perverse look Pig had given Sansa. It was a rather warm smile that didn't make her feel out of place. He applauded, praised her beauty and her talent, said he had never met someone like her. Before leaving her, he confessed she had changed since his first visit: she was more confident, more expressive and he liked that.

In fact, Berdokhovski's second visit was a bit too easy, as if Sansa was meant to receive men in her bedroom and to dance in front of them. Afterward, once he was gone, she thought his presence didn't really bother her, and she even smiled when remembering his compliments. Feeling better, she walked to the phonograph, ready to listen some cheerful tune, and froze when she picked a record at random: she had come across Allegri's _Miserere_. _Father. Mother. How would they react if they knew I danced for him and almost liked it?_

She looked at the pink cabbage roses, blossoming in a vase and filling the bedroom with a rich scent. Baelish and her Russian customer wanted to spoil her – or so they said. One – Baelish – had given her what she needed to be a good, profitable dancer; the other one had tried to coax her with expensive sweets and a gorgeous bunch of flowers. The chocolates had been eaten and the roses would be wilted the day after. Berdokhovski's attentions, as lovely as they were, revealed what he saw in her: a kept-woman, who could be bribed with clothes and jewels.

The Hound wanted her to stay the girl he had met on the platform of Grand Central Station, on a warm afternoon of May; a girl who had dreams and who sheltered herself in books when life was disappointing. _God knows he laughed at me for reading romance novels but somehow he came to accept it. He stole these books to please me, to protect me from the things I see and hear in this place._ She felt grateful and moved at the same time.

"Will you read the books?" the Hound tentatively asked.

"Of course I will. I'm touched, really."

"Such a perfect lady," he sneered at her.

His bad manners came back, arousing her own exasperation. She thought of some cutting remark she could use to humiliate him, then gave up. _Maybe that's what he wants. He loves it when I'm angry._

"If I finish these books before we leave, I'll tell you which ones you should steal from Cersei's library," she said quietly.

Her reaction surprised him so much he didn't answer anything and he laughed. It was just a chuckle at first, something she thought he could easily repress, then it turned into a roar drowning out Gershwin's music. Sansa hoped the house's inhabitants didn't hear it through the door.

"Do you really mean what you say, Little Bird?" he asked, still convulsed with laughter.

"Yes, I mean it. If you think Cersei won't miss these books."

Regaining his composure, he pointed at the phonograph. _Can't he talk instead of pointing at things?_ Rolling her eyes, Sansa unhurriedly crossed the room and placed another record on the turntable. When she spun on her heels, she found him right behind her, and jumped again. She had not heard his steps on the rug nor felt his presence. He looked a bit sheepish, now. Trying to put as much space as she could between herself and him, she leaned against the table he had carried effortlessly minutes ago, and she almost sat on the edge.

"How is your back, today?" he inquired.

If someone had asked her what the stormy gray eyes expressed at that very moment, Sansa would have answered 'concern'. Unlike Baelish who thought getting hurt by a customer was a hazard and there was nothing to do about it, the Hound seemed worried and perhaps guilty for what had happened to her.

"I think I'm fine... I don't know," she added on an impulse, looking for sympathy.

"Do you mind if I have a look?"

 _Like the first time?_ She was at a loss, because he had asked her, for a change. Sansa bit her lip and pondered over it before making up her mind. Nobody seemed to care about her – even if the red-haired girl they call Evie smiled at Sansa every time they met in the house. _And he asked my permission._ With his arms dangling and his seriousness, the Hound didn't look like he was about to hurt her. She slowly nodded.

"Sit down on the edge of the bed, then," he whispered.

"Are you going to apply balm on my back, this time?" she asked him. "Because it left greasy stains on the dress I was wearing the other night."

Sitting down, she bit her lip, remembering how he had laughed at her when she complained about the marks on the carpet; to Sansa's great surprise, his sarcasms never came.

"Don't think it's necessary," he simply commented.

The mattress sank under his weight when he positioned himself behind her. Her shoulders tensed but she said nothing and let him button down her dress. The Hound didn't rant this time and did it wordlessly; she clutched to the front of her dress, her hands on her heart. She wanted to ask him if her cuts were healing, if everything seemed alright, but the words were stuck in her throat. The cheerful music coming from the copper-colored horn and filling the room contrasted with their silence; she knew he was looking at her, staring at expanses of flesh nobody saw.

For a second, Sansa imagined what he saw: the auburn hair she had put in a bun on the back of her neck, her spine, her pale skin scraped in places. She tried to picture the grazes that were brownish now, and the bruises turning to yellow, but the image lingering in her mind was that of the Hound's big calloused hands next to the small of her back.

 _He'll find another excuse, next time. Will I refuse?_ Sansa contemplated the possibility of forbidding the Hound to have a look at her back; she could tell him the cuts had healed, she could give modesty as a reason, she could tell him she simply didn't want to give in to his tantrums anymore. _Is this what I want?_

All of a sudden, she felt his hand on her right shoulder, the long fingers and the palm fitting the form of her joint; the warmth his hand provided made her relax a bit more until his callous thumb slipped between her skin and the strap of her dress. Then, he slowly made it slide off her shoulder. Sansa's heart skipped a beat and her back stiffened; she nonetheless let him do the same on her left shoulder.

Now that he had access to her back she thought he would run his fingers down her spine or something like this but nothing came. He watched her wordlessly and when the song finally ended, giving way to the crackle of the needle against the record, all she could hear was his breathing. That sound – his ragged breath behind her she heard despite the faint noises coming from the phonograph – disturbed her more than what had happened before.

Sansa knew the situation was inappropriate – even Baelish would hit the ceiling if he saw his protegé half-naked in front of a customer who had only paid for a dance – but she was glued to the edge of the bed and she didn't want anything of this to end. _I won't protest if he wants to have a look at my back next time_ , she realized, guilt and curiosity being on a level playing field in her mind.

"The phonograph," he said softly, as if he was afraid of rushing her.

Sansa stood up abruptly and put the straps back in place with a shrug before walking to the phonograph. While she was by the French window, picking another record, she didn't glance at him, but she felt his eyes on her. Her dress was still open and her position, facing the phonograph, allowed him to see a large part of her back. What he saw, what he didn't and what he imagined as her dress hung loosely on her shoulders made her swallow hard.

 _I should be more careful with him; I should impose limits instead of accepting everything._ Yet the sensation of being watched was strange: disturbing and intoxicating at the same time. Slow but steady, the barriers her education had built around her were collapsing one by one. The changes she went through puzzled her. _Is it because of the place I'm living in? Is it because of him?_ She didn't feel ready to answer this question. Sansa nevertheless came back to the Hound, blushing deeply.

"Can you help me button up my dress?" she asked, avoiding his gaze.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him nodding and getting on his feet. He fumbled with the buttons, like the first time, and he sighed when it was over.

"There's something to eat if you're hungry," she said, turning to him. "I asked for sandwiches."

Sansa pointed at the dome plate cover on the desk; earlier that day, she had asked the cook to prepare a plate for her guest. The old woman had frowned but she had obeyed all the same, giving her a plate with three ham sandwiches. The Hound nodded curtly, walked to the desk and went back to the leather armchair, the plate in his hands. He bit the slices of bread while she sat cautiously on the edge of the bed, observing his attitude. Once the first sandwich was but breadcrumbs on his pants, he sat back and let out a sigh.

"Want some?" he rasped, holding out the plate.

_That's an improvement. Maybe I'll finally teach him politeness._

"No, thanks. I've eaten before."

"What did you eat?"

She repressed a chuckle. He sounded like her father when he had had a long day at work and asked her what she had done, who she had seen, and what she had had for lunch.

"Some soup," she answered evasively. "Bread, cheese and... baked apples."

"What kind of menu is that?"

"Well, that's what the cook gives us for dinner everyday. Peitho's orders."

The girls ate together in the kitchens, under the madam's watchful gaze. Baelish's employees couldn't get too fat or too thin and Peitho therefore controlled what they fed on. Sansa had heard that some of her companions had stolen food from the kitchens because they were hungry; Peitho had kept a part of their wages once she had discovered it.

"Why doesn't she give you meat or eggs? Some solid food?" the Hound inquired.

Sansa didn't want to discuss the concept of solid food with him, but she felt the urge to answer nonetheless.

"Peitho doesn't want us to get fat," she explained. "We eat boiled vegetables and baked fruits because it's good for digestion.

"You'd better say she doesn't want Baelish's whores to fart while they are in bed with a customer," he snorted.

_It's gross! How can he talk like that?_

"You think I'm rude, girl," he commented, observing her. "You're right. Take one."

He held out the plate to her, though she looked at her pretty high heel shoes insistently.

"It took away my appetite," she replied coldly.

"Oh, come on, Little bird. Don't make a fuss about a stupid remark."

The Hound waved the plate under Sansa's nose, hoping the smell of ham tempted her. Even if she faced his scarred side, he looked triumphant when she met his gaze.

"But you're hungry."

"I'm a man, I'm always hungry," he retorted, shrugging.

She gave him a long look and finally took a sandwich.

"Good girl," he whispered, smirking.

He had spoken as if she was a wild animal he tried to tame, but Sansa wondered who was really domesticating the other one. _I'm the one who gave him food in the first place_ , she mused, nibbling at her sandwich.

After she put another record on the turntable – a ballad called _Blue Jeans_ – she sat again on the bed and watched him carelessly dusting down his pants so that the breadcrumbs fell on the rug.

"I've heard you knew this place," she said, taking him unaware.

Forgetting about the breadcrumbs, he stared at her, narrowing his eyes. _Don't pretend you're surprised, you knew that conversation would come._

"I met the girl you... visited," she added. "Evie. She's pregnant."

She saw him curl his fingers and uncurl them as if he prepared himself before a fight. His long dark hair hid a part of his face and when he locked eyes with her again, he looked more sullen than ever.

"Can't be my child, girl. It's been a year since I last came. And I always take precautions."

A deep blush crept over her cheeks as she tried to keep away the images of the Hound knocking at Evie's door.

"Why did you choose her?" she heard herself whisper.

Sansa couldn't believe she had had enough guts to ask him; it was tactless and indiscreet – exactly what she found so exasperating about the Hound. He stared at her for a long while, his narrow eyes and scowl more threatening than ever.

"She's mute and I never liked talkative whores," he finally answered, observing her reaction. "Don't go to brothels to talk with a stupid girl who knows nothing except spreading her legs. And if she goes on talking, well... I've my own ways to shush whores. It's rather efficient, usually."

A sardonic smile pulled up the corner of his lips, animating the right side of his face with a cruel satisfaction; he anticipated her scandalized look – when she understood the exact meaning of his words – and he enjoyed it. Sansa averted her eyes.

"Why are you so insufferable?" she managed to say, unable to meet his gaze.

"Why did you ask, in the first place?"

"Evie said you told her about me."

"She _said_?" he asked, frowning in disbelief.

"Oh, you know what I mean... She's mute, but she can express what she thinks-"

"Fuck! Why would I tell her something about you?" he rasped. "The world doesn't revolve around you, girl!"

Sansa sighed deeply, closing her eyes and trying to think straight. Another walk to the phonograph gave her a short respite.

"What I don't understand is... what will happen to Evie's child," she explained, sitting on her favorite spot on the bed. "Can a child live in a place like this house?"

"Evie is still here?" he asked. "Baelish didn't toss her out?"

The Hound looked surprised. She nodded.

"It would be so unfair if he sent her away!" she protested. "Luckily, he told her she could stay."

He shifted and crossed his long legs, frowning.

"Luckily?" he repeated. "Do you really think he gives a shit about some whore working for him? Luck or compassion have nothing to do with it. Baelish must have a fucking plan for Evie or for her child."

"A plan?" she nearly shouted. "What kind of plan are you talking about? Baelish can't be that cruel..."

He shook his head, seemingly annoyed by her gullibility.

"Look at you," he rasped. "You were an orphan, you had lost everything and he just took advantage of your situation. Isn't that cruel?"

Sansa pondered on his words and wordlessly looked at her folded hands.

"What can we do about Evie?" she finally asked, setting her blue eyes on him.

"Nothing. If Evie got herself into deep shit, that's not my business. Preparing your flight is my highest priority."

She repressed a chuckle and slightly shook her head; he leaned forward as soon as he noticed it.

"What is it you find so funny, girl?" he growled, his dark hair framing his disfigured face.

"If I'm your highest priority, as you claim, why didn't you prevent all this? It would have been easier to do something before I ended up in this awful place!"

Her high-pitched voice struck her: it was the voice of a girl who had endured many things without complaining before yielding to anger. The Hound stood up and cupped her chin, towering above her.

"Ever heard of Blackwater, girl?"

She remembered the beach on the New Jersey shore where Stannis Baratheon had tried to arrest the Lannister henchmen just before Joffrey sent her away, was called Blackwater. She nodded, despite the strong hand holding her chin.

"I've been a bit busy, lately," he added. "After these scumbags tried to stop us and took most of the shipment, some of the men were wounded. We were on the lam. I kept a low profile until things settled down. When I came back, the Little Bird was gone. End of story."

His detached tone expressed so much resentment it hurt her. Abashed, Sansa let her eyes fall on his broad chest, then on his middle and finally contemplated his shoes. He let go of her and silently went back to the armchair, cursing. She felt so embarrassed she didn't say anything, not even an apology, before it was time for him to leave.

Ignoring her, he walked around the bed in hurried strides and took the overcoat he had left on the console table. She followed him, fighting against a persistent sensation of awkwardness and guilt. His gray eyes darkened when he turned around and saw her in front of him.

"I know there are creases on my shirt, girl," he rasped, anticipating what she wanted to do and stepping forward. "Don't bother yourself with that. I'm just an old dog who visits whores and who arrived too late to save you from all this."

He was towering above her again, his eyes going from her reddened face to her neckline then back to her blue eyes, wondering when she would move aside.

"I want you to come back," she said in a toneless voice. "I want you to come back, Sandor."

She never used his first name when she called him – in fact, she never called him – and she had done it on an impulse, hoping that he would react. He snorted in disbelief.

"I mean it," she insisted hitting the high note and trying to lock eyes with him.

The Hound grabbed her upper arms, made her sit on the bed, then squatted in front of her and bore into her eyes.

"It's late," he growled. "The little girl should get some sleep."

With that, he stood up and left her. Sansa stayed there for long minutes before raising her gaze and finding the red morocco bindings of the books he had stolen, forgotten on the console table.

"I'll read the books," she said out loud, even if he couldn't hear her anymore. "I'll read the books."

* * *

Two days after the Hound's visit, Peitho knocked at Sansa's door to introduce another customer. Despite the man's lateness, Sansa was still in front of her cheval mirror, checking her hair. Her headband didn't stay in place – but with its gossamer flowers and its pearl gray ribbon, it perfectly matched the silvery dress with a pleated skirt she had chosen that night. She smiled at her reflection – even though she hardly recognized that tall red-haired girl with rouged lips and mascara – and turned to greet her new customer.

In the door frame, Peitho gestured and the man stepped in. When he heard Sansa's voice, he turned slightly to his left and she gaped; these droopy eyes and the red beard belonged to another familiar figure of the Red Mansion: Meryn Trant. Forgetting about politeness, Sansa tried to lock eyes with Peitho and to beg her silently; she didn't want to stay alone with a man who had beaten her every time Joffrey asked him. She could tell from the mad look in his eyes whenever he slapped her in the face, the man loved to hurt people – and especially loved to hit her.

However, Peitho quickly closed the door without noticing Sansa's frantic glances and she left the girl alone with her tormentor.

"Seems that you're stuck with me, now," he spat, leering at her.

Smirking, he walked towards her, stopping at arm's length of her shaking form.

"Good evening," she mumbled.

"Good evening to you, doll."

Sansa observed his broad shoulders and long, powerful arms. Any mistake, any sign of weakness could have disastrous consequences with a man like Meryn Trant. _Breath deeply and act as if everything was alright._

"Please sit down," she said, managing to smile shyly and pointing at the armchair across the room.

Trant chuckled and sat on the bed, eying her greedily. With his legs open and his fixed grin, he was the image of the future customers she feared so much. _But I'll never become a whore, the Hound promised me. I'll fly away before it happens. And if it ever happens, I'll be so expensive the likes of Trant will never pay for a night with me._ She shivered, realizing she couldn't even think straight in front of the man who enjoyed to beat her.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but the armchair will be much more comfortable to sit in and watch me dance."

"Did I say I wanted you to dance, girl?" he asked, but he stood up and walked to the armchair nonetheless.

_Just a stupid joke, but it's alright. Focus on the music, focus on your dance, and he'll be gone within an hour._

Sansa felt ham-handed with the records and she had to have a second go at it, before the 78 rpm was correctly placed on the turntable. The music flooded the air and she walked towards the man slumped in the leather armchair. The cheerful brass wind of _Ain't We Got Fun_ encouraged her, but she decided to keep her distance with Trant. She began to move, slowly at first, trying to release the nervous tension in her limbs. Closing her eyes and trying to forget about him, she swung her arms in rhythm and swayed her hips.

_In the winter, in the summer,_

_Don't we have fun?_

_Times are bum and getting bummer_

_Still we have fun._

Still dancing, she tried to find solace in the conversation she had had with Baelish and Peitho, a few days before. _Baelish said it: what he sells to these men is an hour spent with me. I dance and I dance only for him. Baelish sells him the illusion that he could end up in bed with me, but it is an illusion-_

Her arm brushed against something and she immediately opened her eyes. Meryn Trant had left the armchair and now stood only inches of her. She froze.

"What- What are you doing?" she stammered, terrified.

"I thought of jerking off in front of you, but why would I do that when we can have some fun?"

She stepped back, trying to calm down in spite of the panic overwhelming her senses.

"Please sit down, Sir," she said with the best smile she could give him.

"Sir? Come on, we know each other, you and I. We already had fun," he answered, using the song's catchphrase.

"Please. Walk to the armchair and sit back. You won't regret it; I'm a good dancer. One of my customers says I'm gifted."

Sansa understood her desperate attempt to reason him was a failure when he caught her wrist.

"No," she said, wriggling away from Trant. "Please!"

She frantically retreated to the bathroom, hoping she could lock herself inside, but before she reached the door, he managed to grab her around her waist and carried her to the bed, where he unceremoniously dropped her.

_When I first saw you,_

_I had but one thought_

_and then you chased me_

_\- oh, until you were caught._

Screaming, Sansa kicked him until he let go of her; on her hands and knees, she hurried to reach the other side of the bed – the door side. He caught her by the ankle, dragged her across the bed and slapped her. She shouted even more, clutching to the faint hope that someone would hear the noise.

Changing his mind, he walked to the desk, took the chair where Sansa sat down to read the newspaper everyday and he positioned the chair against the door, to delay those who may rescue the girl. In the meanwhile, she stayed by the console table, trying to find something – anything – that might help her. There were no scissors, no paper knife in her room. As he walked back to her, she grabbed the bronze statuette on the console table, but before she could hit Trant with it, he grasped her around the wrist and made her drop her makeshift weapon. In desperation, she tried to find something else and seized one of the books the Hound had given her; a blow on Trant's head elicited a low growl.

Out of control, he hit her so forcefully she collapsed on the floor, her back hitting the table feet. Sansa was so weak after her fall she didn't flail when he scooped her up and carried her to the bed again. When she felt his hands on her, she nevertheless tried to thrash about, and she even managed to scratch her attacker.

"Stupid bitch!" he spat. "You'll be sorry for that."

Trant straddled her, leaning on Sansa with his full weight, his face distorted by rage. Holding her wrists above her head with one hand, he tore her dress from the left shoulder to the hip, despite her protestations. Now that most of her body was exposed to his eyes, she cried even more; he shushed her with another slap. She felt woozy as he ran his hand down her neck.


	4. Gashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She protested, shook her head and tried to struggle but he was far more robust than her and he easily prevented her feeble attempts to escape him.  
> "Sansa! Open that door, now! Sansa..."  
> That voice seemed far away, too, as if there were leagues between Sansa and the person who called her, as if it belonged to another dimension.  
> Mother, she thought, suddenly convinced this feminine voice was Catelyn's. Who else? Who else would come for me now that I live in a brothel and dance in front of lewd old men? Oh, Mother...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence against women.

She felt numb as Trant's hands tried to free her from her dress – that expensive silvery dress Baelish had given her a few days ago, a ridiculous grin on his face. Why that particular detail – Baelish watching her with his slicked hair and smug smile – had popped up in her mind, Sansa couldn't tell. The thin fabric offered more resistance than expected though, and she heard her assailant cursing, yet his voice seemed far away, as if there was no connection between the hands she felt on her chest and the noises all around her: the sound of tearing fabric, the unpleasant rustle of the satin bedspread underneath her, Trant's puffing and panting, and the profanities he mumbled.

All of a sudden, he shifted and hiked up her dress. _No, you can't let him do that to you._ She protested, shook her head and tried to struggle but he was far more robust than her and he easily prevented her feeble attempts to escape him.

"Sansa! Open that door, now! Sansa..."

That voice seemed far away, too, as if there were leagues between Sansa and the person who called her, as if it belonged to another dimension. _Mother_ , she thought, suddenly convinced this female voice was Catelyn's. _Who else? Who else would come for me now that I live in a brothel and dance in front of lewd old men? Oh, Mother..._

Furious shouts suddenly filled the room and Sansa protested again, her hands moving of their own accord. _Leave me be, now. You're making too much noise._

"Oh, Sansa. You're alright, baby girl. You're alright..."

There were more cries, more agitation in the room, then on the landing and in the staircase, but Sansa felt dragged on the bed, cradled like a child. The scent – a rich mix of bergamot and oak-moss – was not Catelyn's. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she realized.

"No, no, darling Sansa, don't cry. It's over."

The woman obstinately cradled her, clinging to Sansa as if she tried to reassure herself. Exhausted and overwrought, she sank into a restless sleep, interrupted by nightmares.

* * *

Peitho's oval face, with her dark eyes and rouged lips, was the first thing she saw when she woke up the morning after. The blond madam still wore her evening dress – an exquisite black dress with a V neckline and fringes on the armholes and on the skirt. With the exaggerated lip-line, her mouth looked like a cherry; after a night spent watching over Sansa, her mascara had run, darkening her lower eyelids. Sansa sat up abruptly, trying to recall what had happened, then she looked at her bare arms and remembered: she had scratches going from her wrists to her elbows. Her forehead hurt. Peitho's tender smile was reassuring and compassionate at the same time. _I look bad. Really bad._

Getting on her feet, the madam left the armchair she had spent the night in and sat down on the edge of the bed, taking Sansa's hands in hers. The pressure the girl felt around her fingers was friendly yet it exuded some unutterable concern. Peitho would probably never acknowledge it, yet she was worried.

"You're safe."

Another squeeze of her hands proved the blond woman's relief; Sansa nodded slowly.

"Did he-" Her trailing voice betrayed the girl's inability to ask the question.

"No," Peitho announced. "He hit you but he didn't have the time to-"

Oddly enough, as if Sansa's unease rubbed off on her, the madam wasn't able to finish her sentence. Without any other warning than watery eyes, she hugged Sansa and held her tightly. She muttered something the girl didn't understand probably because it was Russian words. A bit surprised, Sansa didn't resist and finally patted Peitho's back. The blond woman's chest heaved painfully and she began to sob, her head resting against Sansa's shoulder. All of a sudden, Peitho let go of her and wiped her tears with a shy smile.

"I'm sorry, darling Sansa. I should be the one who comforts you instead of crying like a little girl," she apologized, sniffing. "Must be because I didn't sleep much."

"What happened exactly?"

Sansa had noticed the nightgown someone had helped her slip on and wondered how she had ended up in bed, with some band-aid on her face – she could feel it on her temple.

"Jo heard you scream. She warned me and we tried to open the door, but it was closed-"

"He had blocked the door with a chair," she explained.

Peitho nodded, her gaze lingering on Sansa's gashes.

"We tried to open it, to- How do you say it?" The madam mimicked the gesture of someone pushing a door.

"You tried to knock it down."

"That's it. The cook came to help us and Jo knocked down the door. Someone will fix it today."

She pointed at the unhinged door, then locked eyes with Sansa again.

"Jo was incredible. She threw herself on your customer, with the cook, while I checked on you. You were in shock. I was afraid you could have a concussion, so I called Doctor Pycelle. He said you were alright and needed a good rest. No chores, no customers today. You stay in bed and you relax."

Her motherly attitude didn't completely reassure Sansa.

"What happened to Meryn Trant?" she asked after a while.

"We threw him out, of course! Jo kicked him once or twice."

"You didn't go to the police, did you?"

Peitho looked embarrassed. "You know we can't go to the police, child. And he works for the Lannisters! But he won't come back."

Sansa repressed a shiver. _What did you expect, silly girl?_ In Baelish's absurd kingdom, things happened that way: the government's laws did not apply inside the house. The customers could do as they pleased, on condition that they paid. Trant had demanded much more than the dance he had paid for, but he remained a customer: neither Baelish nor Peitho would tell on him. She clenched her fists. Baelish denied her the right to lay charges and there was nothing she could do about it. _Nothing. Except pray that Trant doesn't come back._

* * *

Her reflection in the mirror was dreadful; she didn't only have scratches but also bruises – the new ones probably covering those that Pig had left on her back, the dark ones superimposing on yellowish hues. Standing in front of the mirror in her bathroom, Sansa frowned at the sight of her nose, tumid on one side. The cut on her lower lip was the ugliest thing she had seen in a while. With a determined gesture, she took off her nightgown and examined her skin.

Trant had left marks on her bust from her left shoulder to her navel – abrasions, cuts and even teeth marks she didn't recall. Tears pooled at the corner of her eyes when she realized how he had ruined her breasts. Dark red crusts showed the places where his nails had dug in to the tender skin and the teeth marks right above her nipple sickened her. It was disturbing to discover afterward a proof of something she didn't remember.

Forgetting about her breasts, she scrutinized the skin of her belly and found more scratches, sometimes longer than the other ones, but the cuts were superficial and they didn't reveal the fury that had taken hold of Trant. _On my legs, however..._ It was just before Peitho's arrival to rescue her, and Trant's anger and frustration were visible. The top of her thighs was covered with bruises, and she recalled how he had leaned on her with his full weight before hiking up her skirt. The memory brought back more tears and a futile urge to press her legs together.

Cocking her head to the side, she contemplated the bathtub filled with warm water that awaited her. _'A hot bath, and it will be as if nothing had happened,'_ Peitho had said. It was a foolish notion, but she had nothing else to do. And nobody else to turn to. _She seemed so worried this morning when I woke up._

She looked at the mirror again, examining the pale girl whose bruises and cuts ruined the once flawless skin. She was but a doll with a slender figure, a thin waist, round breasts and long legs; a broken doll, damaged by some boisterous child, but she would be fixed, dressed and her hair would be done before her next customer arrived. _Not tonight - Peitho has been adamant – but I will dance again the night after._ It was her future, her destiny.

She sighed deeply and contorted herself to have a look at her back. _He won't be pleased._ She easily imagined the Hound's reaction when he would discover the long gashes on her back. The memory of her fall and the pain she had felt the night before when she had collided with the table's feet were acute, still she didn't know how her back looked like until that moment. _There are more bruises, there._ She suddenly pictured the Hound's next visit and she knew he would ask about her back. What would she tell him, then? Could she lie and say that nothing had happened? Could she prevent him from seeing the marks of Trant's assault?

She hastily wiped the tears rolling down her cheeks, eager to forget about him and about everything. Sansa wished she could break the mirror that witnessed her shame and the anger seething in her mind. Removing her panties, she quickly crossed the room to step in the bathtub and she clutched to the faint hope that Peitho could be right about the effects of a hot bath after an aggression. The warm water stung and when she immersed herself it was as if Trant bit the tender skin of her breast again; she clenched her teeth.

* * *

Evie's belly was rounder everyday but nobody seemed surprised to see her cleaning the floors or helping in the kitchens. _But there's something we can do about it, I'm sure._ Sansa's reflection was fruitless so far and she kept searching her mind to find a solution; in the meanwhile, she needed to know more about Evie. During the afternoon, as two carpenters bustled about the unhinged door of Sansa's room, she went downstairs, found Evie and convinced her they both deserved a break.

Evie smiled and followed her out of the meeting hall, grabbing Sansa's wrist and leading her upstairs. Sansa obeyed, even if she didn't understand why a pregnant woman insisted on climbing stairs instead of staying on the first floor; she opened her eyes wide when Evie showed her the cubbyhole where she slept. It was like lifting the curtain and discovering how prostitutes ended up, when they had disappointed their pimp. Evie couldn't even receive a customer in such a place and Sansa guessed Baelish had sent her to this tiny room in the attic after he had learned about her pregnancy.

Apart from a narrow bed, a worm-eaten chest of drawers and a chair, there was no furniture. The blanket she had given Evie was folded and carefully put on top of the chest. If Evie didn't stand the bareness she lived in, she didn't show it; smiling, she pointed at the chair until Sansa sat down and she lowered herself on the sagging bed.

"No," Sansa protested, "you should have the chair-"

Evie shook her head vehemently; she had a guest and she would treat her with consideration – her round belly didn't change anything. If the chair was the only seat worthy of the name in this room, her guest had to sit down on it. The red-haired woman extended her hand to reach something she kept under the mattress then held it out triumphantly.

"A slate?" Sansa commented. "I didn't know you used a slate."

Taking a piece of chalk, Evie hastily wrote something, before turning the slate so that Sansa could read.

_"Most people don't ask."_ The young woman's smile seemed a bit melancholic as she let her decipher her sloping handwriting.

"When are you supposed to give birth to this baby?" Sansa asked.

_"Ten weeks. Hope it's a boy."_

"A boy? Why?" Sansa exclaimed.

_"A girl could end up in a brothel and get hurt. Like me, like you."_

As she felt her gaze lingering on her bruised face, Sansa swallowed hard. Evie quickly wiped the words with her palm, then wrote again.

_"How do you feel?"_

The question was rather simple but Sansa realized at once that nobody had asked her – nor Peitho, nor the other girls who had looked hard at her during the lunch. Evie was the first one to ask her if she was alright.

"I think I'm fine."

Evie's eyes filled with tears but she went on writing.

_"That's why I pray to God every night, not to have a daughter."_

"I'll pray for you," Sansa answered. "I'll pray that your child is healthy and has a beautiful life."

The squeaking of chalk against slate didn't last long this time. _"Thank you, Sansa."_

"If you need anything-" Sansa began, but Evie stopped her with a nod.

_"Is the Hound coming back?"_ Evie asked, drawing two huge question marks.

Sansa felt slightly embarrassed. "Well, I think so. But I don't want to think about it right now, not after what happened last night."

Evie looked puzzled for a while; she hesitated then took the chalk once more.

_"He'll come. He cares about you."_

Sansa giggled and did nothing to repress her fit of laughter hoping that it would hide her reddened cheeks.

"As if the Hound cared for someone!" she commented.

Evie rolled her eyes. _"But he does. He cares for you. He loves you."_

Shifting on her seat, Sansa felt at a loss. The tricks she could use when chatting with someone else were pointless with Evie; since she was mute, lies and subterfuges people used in society had no effect on her. Changing the subject or pretending not to understand would be stupid. Sansa remained silent and tried to stomach the news. _He cares for me. He loves me._ Her first reaction – after a state of abashment – was simple: she doubted that Evie's story was true.

"How can you be sure about it?" Evie bit her lip.

_"Do you know why the Hound choose me instead of another girl?"_

"Because you're beautiful. And you're a kind person."

_Please don't tell me he chose you because you're mute._ Evie grinned and motioned Sansa so that she sat down on the bed, by her side; she grabbed Sansa's wrist and pointed at the girl's pale skin, then at hers. Sansa's eyes widened in surprise, so Evie went on. She undid her hair, taking her red locks, then stroked Sansa's long braid.

"We have red hair, we are pale," Sansa confirmed. "So what?"

At the back of her mind, an idea she thought foolish and trivial gained ground; the more Sansa rejected this idea, the more logic it seemed. Her heart pounding in her chest, she silently watched Evie as she took again the slate and piece of chalk.

_"We look like each other, you and I. One night, when we were together, the Hound shouted your name."_

Evie paused, letting out a deep sigh. Sansa was confused; another girl would have given her saucy details about her nights with the Hound. Evie didn't wish to shock her: the difficulties she had to express herself made her straight forward and more sincere than anyone else in Baelish's house.

_"He thought the girls could have heard him and make the connection. So he never came back. It was a year ago, before Peitho's arrival. Long before I got pregnant."_

Her eyes falling on her lap, Sansa didn't completely realize what Evie had told her. _We look like each other. The Hound cares for me and-_

_"I understood everything the day you arrived, Sansa."_

Then, putting aside the now useless slate and piece of chalk, Evie took her in her arms and cradled her. The frail young woman didn't hug her like Peitho; the madam had clung to her demonstratively while Evie's embrace seemed more serene. Peitho had cried and talked with a motherly tone while Evie didn't need to pretend; she _was_ a mother, even if she was hardly older than Sansa, even if childbirth was still weeks away.

* * *

Exhilaration took hold of Baelish's house as the preparations for the show began; Sansa's assault – or 'the incident' as they all said – had convinced Baelish his protege would be safer and would make more money if dozens of men could see her dance. Thus, Peitho demanded that all the girls take part in the preparations: some sewed costumes, others practiced, while a few cleaned the meeting hall and painted the scenery. Sansa ended up with the ones who prepared the outfits the girls would wear on stage and she sewed Peitho's dress.

"We should have another one like this instead of ruining our hands," Meg complained, glaring at Dorothy who was sitting behind a Singer sewing machine, while her sister Lois told her in a whisper how to use it.

Peitho heard Meg's remark but she was busy watching the girls who danced on the stage and she therefore didn't reply; her lack of reaction emboldened Viola.

"Why are we doing this in the first place?" she asked, putting aside her needlework. "We don't know how to dance or how to sing!"

"Don't assume everyone else is in the same boat, dear," Peitho retorted, forgetting about the girls' practice.

Dorothy and Lois chuckled instantly, their blond heads colliding at some point. Eager to escape the gossipy and stifling atmosphere, Sansa asked if she could take her needlework to her room and hardly waited for Peitho's approval to rush upstairs.

* * *

Sansa tossed and turned until dawn, before sinking into sleep. The nightmares she had had right after her assault came back and left her exhausted. Peitho asked her about her drawn features, as the preparations for the show went on. When the telephone rang, Peitho left the girls alone in the meeting hall; she came back a minute later and motioned Sansa towards her with a gesture.

"One of your customers wants to come and see you dancing tonight," Peitho explained. "I'm going to tell him you're sick."

"Who is it? Is it Berdokhovski?"

"No, this horrible man, the Hound, called and I didn't have scruples to let him wait," the blond woman answered, pouting.

Sansa's heart skipped a beat; Peitho misunderstood her panicked expression and supposed she was afraid to dance again in front of a customer.

"Very well, dear, I'll tell him you're bedridden. You need another night of rest."

As the madam turned around, decided to usher out the man she considered as an unwelcome visitor, Sansa extended her arm and stopped her. _I don't want to miss a chance to see him._

"No, no, Peitho, please wait!" the girl protested. "I'd rather dance tonight instead of dwelling on what happened. Tell him he can come."

Spinning on her heels, Peitho carefully watched Sansa, taking in the tumid nose and the pale face with dark circles .

"Are you sure, child?" she asked, gently cupping Sansa's chin. "When I told you the Hound planned to come, you looked frightened... This man scares you."

"No, he doesn't. You took me unawares and I'm a bundle of nerves, today. I think I need to resume work. I need to dance."

Her voice – quicker and sharper than usual – exuded nervousness; she feared not to convince Peitho, but the madam lay blame on the ordeal she had been through with Trant and decided to believe her.

"If you ever change your mind, I'll send him away, child. Just tell me," she said, rubbing Sansa's cheek with an affectionate gesture. "But what will you do about your nose? He'll see it."

"Can't I powder it?"

"I suppose you can," Peitho replied, tilting her head and scrutinizing the marks on her face. "I'll help you if you want."

"We're talking about a veteran, after all," Sansa added, eager to persuade her. "I doubt a tumid nose scares him away."

"Men want us pretty."

Peitho had spoken with a hint of melancholy, as if she wanted to warn the girl. Weakness and lack of elegance didn't get well with their trade. The slightest flaw, the tiniest wrinkle were signs of decline and the kept woman who was careless about her appearance – or simply less done up than she used to so far – went downhill. In Peitho's case, Sansa imagined it was a daily struggle, with kohl and silk stockings instead of machine guns and shellfire; the blond woman, as beautiful as she was, knew she fought a losing battle.

Peitho nevertheless walked to Baelish's office to inform the Hound he could come; when she returned to the meeting hall, she had put on her mask of self-confidence and no one could tell what kind of contradictory thoughts banged like huge waves in her blond head.

* * *

Sansa had left nothing to chance about the third visit of the Hound: she had asked for sandwiches in the kitchens, she had requested Peitho's help to powder her face and to conceal the marks of her aggression. She had even donned long gloves to hide the gashes on her forearms. These tricks were intended for Peitho, rather than the Hound; Baelish's mistress had to believe that Sansa was recovering and was ready to welcome another customer.

As soon as the Hound would arrive, the girl wanted to tell him what had happened two days ago and to convince him to hasten their departure. She tried to focus on this idea and to keep at bay the questions that had sprouted up in her mind after her conversation with Evie. _Maybe she didn't understand. Maybe I didn't understand what she tried to say. All I need is to leave this place, by any means._

Her dark red dress made her look very pale, when she observed her reflection in the cheval mirror; the costly dress with a low-waistline and shiny seed beads enhanced her complexion and but didn't hide the scratches on the top of her back, on her upper arms or on her throat.

And suddenly he came in, as sullen and impressive as usual. Even if she had seen him countless times in the Red Mansion and was supposedly accustomed to his massive figure, Sansa still had this weird sensation that the Hound's presence filled the room, whenever they met. No matter how hard she tried to stay calm, her heart was pounding in her chest when she walked towards him, a shy smile on her lips.

She helped him take off his overcoat, wordlessly and with unhurried movements, then carried it to the console table; there were droplets on the woolen fabric, as the rain had been pouring all day. She folded the overcoat and put it on the console table so that it covered the small hole on the wall, before coming back to him. _Forget about Evie. Don't ever think of what she said. Focus on your escape._ As she stepped towards him, she realized he had seen the cuts and bruises on her skin: he was frowning, nostrils a-quiver.

"What happened to you?" His accusatory tone hurt her; he sounded as if not telling him about Trant to begin with was a deadly sin. "What are you trying to hide?" he went on.

In two long strides, he was in front of her and he cupped her chin, forcing her to watch his scars. With his other hand, he brushed the side of her nose, eliciting a tiny gasp from her. His angry eyes scanned her face, detected on her temple the gash she tried to hide with a headband and, at that moment, Sansa could have sworn the gray pupils had turned black.

"Speak!" he urged her.

Her chin began to quiver against his callous hand; Sansa did her best to regain her composure and to fight back tears. With a tremendous effort, she managed to mumble her answer.

"Meryn Trant came here."

He stiffened at once and as he still looked inquiringly at her, she decided not to hide anything.

"He tried to rape me."

These last words cost her more than all she had endured before – neither the pain, nor the other girls' look, nor the prospect of being stuck in Baelish's brothel had been nearly as hard as this confession. Now that Sansa had put into words Trant's intentions towards her, she admitted she was a victim, and furthermore, an objectified woman who could be used and abused without a second thought. She fell to pieces and began to sob.

The Hound turned around immediately and kicked the first thing within reach – the stool of her dressing table. The wooden stool crashed to the opposite wall with such a fierceness Sansa jumped. The Hound cursed and she suddenly thought of the other inhabitants of the house. _Let's hope they didn't hear anything._ Trembling like a leaf, she went to the phonograph and tried to remove a record from its sleeve but her long gloves combined to her nervousness slowed her up.

"What the hell are you doing?" he grunted, coming closer and stopping right behind her. "You think it's time to listen to some shitty song?"

She pointed at the door, swallowing hard.

"If they don't listen to music..." she explained. "Can you do it for me? Please."

She held out the sleeve to him and he complied, snorting. Once the music flooded in the bedroom, she stepped back, afraid of his reaction and began to hug herself. The Hound paced the floor, swearing, and Sansa, despite her distress, wished she could do something to calm him down. The emotions she felt seemed to collide in her head, preventing her from thinking straight. At some point, she even understood what the Hound had said about the song. Yes, it was _shitty_ and she would gladly slapped the trumpeter in his face for taunting her with this cheerful music.

"He tried to rape me, but he didn't have enough time..." she added, watching him pacing up and down. "I swear it's true. Peitho heard my screams and she saved me."

He froze, turned around and walked towards her so briskly she recoiled and bumped into the bed-frame.

"You think this blond whore saved you?" he snarled at her. "She just saved Baelish's investment, girl, that's all!"

That notion – Peitho rescuing her not for herself but for the money that was at stake – was so disturbing Sansa had tried to bury it away; the roughness of the Hound's remark hurt her and tears rolled down her cheeks again. Remembering how Peitho had patiently applied makeup on her eyes and face, she frantically looked for some handkerchief before the Hound stopped her, retrieving his from his pocket. He gave her the piece of smooth fabric, though his eyes still glistened with fury.

_Does he think I gave Trant any encouragement? Does he think I triggered the aggression?_

"Why are you mad at me?" she asked, carefully dabbing her eyes. "I swear I didn't do anything to suggest Trant that I-"

"I know," he growled, towering over her.

His voice sounded different this time, anger giving way to concern. He gave a hint of a gesture, lifting his big hands, as if he wanted to pat her shoulder or to hold her in his arms. Sansa recalled her conversation with Evie and she felt terribly awkward; stepping aside, she went to her dressing table and took the small pot containing ointment he had given her on his first visit. The Hound had turned slightly to observe her, his arms dangling in frustration. Taking a deep breath, she walked back to him and put the small jar in his hands, avoiding his gaze.

"You can have a look at my back if you want and even apply balm on it, but that's all. I can deal with the rest."

She was proud of her detached tone; he said nothing at first, then led her to the bed. Sansa sat down on the edge while he picked another record. He chose _There'll Be Some Changes_ _Made_ by Benton Overstreet and gingerly put the 78 rpm on the turntable. When the mattress sagged behind her, she shivered in anticipation, but instead of buttoning down her dress, he took her right hand and removed the long glove hiding the cuts on her forearm. He did the same with her other hand, sighing when he caught sight of the scratches. He cursed when he buttoned down her dress and saw the long and rather deep gash under her shoulder blade.

 

 

 

_For there's a change in the weather_

_There's a change in the sea_

_So from now on there'll be a change in me_

_My walk will be different, my talk and my name_

_Nothin' about me is going to be the same_

The cold contact of balm made her tremble.

"Do I hurt you?" he asked.

"No, it's cold."

As he stopped his ministrations for a few seconds, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him rubbing his hands to warm up the ointment, before touching her back again. His fingers brushed the gashes, and kneaded the places where she had bruises. The coarse aroma of camphor tickled her nose.

 

 

 

_For there's a change in the fashion_

_Ask the feminine folks_

_Even Jack Benny has been changing jokes_

_I must make some changes from old to new_

_I must do things just the same as others do_

"Why did you choose that song?" she asked the Hound.

"I dunno. Suppose it's the title. You don't like it, I bet?" he rasped.

"On the contrary, the song is well-chosen. The lyrics are rather serious in spite of the lighthearted tune."

She glanced over her shoulder again, but he had let his eyes fall to her lower back; however, there was no ambiguity in his behavior this time. He tried to find the right amount of pressure to rub in balm on her damaged skin without hurting her.

 

 

 

_I must have some loving or I'll fade away._

_There'll be some changes made today,_

_There'll be some changes made_

When the phonograph went silent, he stood up and chose a different song. In the meanwhile, Sansa pondered on the lyrics, eyes downcast. _Am I supposed to change? Am I supposed to toughen up? What would my parents think of all this? Their little girl eyed greedily everyday and almost raped by a man twice her age... Only rescued because her maidenhood is valuable..._

Tears fell on her lap, like dark marks widening on the red fabric of her dress; that's how she realized she was crying again. Instead of sitting by her side, the Hound squatted in front of her and took her hands.

"Look at me, Little Bird. He won't come back."

Sansa noticed he had rolled up his sleeves and saw the rippling muscles of his forearms as he squeezed her fingers. _He won't come back?_

"He can come back when he wants, neither Peitho nor Baelish went to the police. I'm sure you saw him out there, in the Red Mansion, coming and going as if nothing had happened!"

Her angry tone fazed him; still squatting in front of her, he tried to stomach her words.

"Am I right? You met him since 'the Incident' as Baelish called what Trant did to me, you met him and he looked as if he had a clear conscience."

He let go of her hands and grabbed her upper arms, his gray eyes boring into hers.

"He won't come back," he whispered. "He won't touch you again."

"Don't try to deaden my mind with promises you can't keep! You said Peitho rescued me because I'm valuable but at least she didn't make false promises."

On the Hound's solemn features, her reproaches produced the same effect as a slap. She felt his fingers tense around her upper arms and she suddenly regretted her cutting remark and her challenging gaze. He nevertheless rubbed her arms when she began to sob, then sat down behind her to button up her dress. When it was over, he went to the closet, took a blanket from the upper shelf and wrapped it around Sansa's shoulders. She had kept his handkerchief and wrung it uselessly: he grabbed it and wiped her tears, kneeling in front of her.

"I want to go now," she muttered, crying. "Take me away from this place."

"We can't go tonight, nor tomorrow. I told you we need money."

"Can't you do something about all this?" she nearly shouted, exasperated by his answer.

His eyes narrowed suddenly and she saw his hands slightly shaking. The Hound stayed silent for a while and watched her sobbing before standing up and offering her his hand.

"Come," he whispered.

Still wrapped in her blanket, she got on her feet. She was flush with him, the top of her head hardly reaching his shoulder. Sansa hiccupped but managed to stop crying.

"Promises are for morons, so I won't make promises," he rasped. "Come."

As he opened his arms tentatively, she put her head against his chest and let him hug her. He was clumsy, patting her back forcefully instead of rubbing it.

"Just hold me," she whispered, breathing his usual smell – tobacco, whiskey and a hint of sweat that revealed he didn't spend his days behind a desk.

He complied and stopped moving.

"Hush, it's over."

His husky voice soothed her, though she couldn't explain why. She craned her neck and saw hesitation in the stormy gray eyes; he finally scooped her up and carried her to the armchair, where he sat, Sansa on his knees. With careful movements, he wrapped the blanket around her form, then pulled her close. Placing a hand under her legs, he lifted her until she rested across his lap, her head on his shoulder and her knees on the armrest.

When she thought back of his second visit, she realized how different it had been. The Hound's goings-on about her back – even if, she admitted it, she had done nothing to stop him – had left little room for imagination: he wanted her. That night, however, he behaved as if he only wished to protect Sansa and, for the first time since Trant had crossed the threshold of her room, she felt safe.

"He knows I've been visiting you," he confessed, staring into space. "I mean that bastard. Trant."

_Is it because Trant knew the Hound saw me that he decided to come?_

"Did you have troubles with him before?" she asked, looking up and trying to lock eyes with him.

"Other troubles than watching him beat you without doing anything?" Sansa closed her eyes with exasperation; she sometimes thought the Hound liked to blame himself.

"You couldn't do anything as long as we were in the Red Mansion," she said. "You obeyed Joffrey. You still obey him."

_He's been doing this for so many years: obeying to the Lannisters._ As far as she knew, the Hound had always worked for them, the war he had fought in Europe being like an interlude filled with more violence and fury. _And during these long months in Europe, it was about obeying the rules, again._ Sometimes, she wondered if he could choose a different path and be on his own. Perhaps his loyalty towards the Lannisters – even if he seemed to question it now – was a hurdle if she wanted to escape. _But what choice do I have?_

On an impulse, she lifted her right hand that rested in her lap, protected by layers of wool and put it on his chest. At first, it was only a soothing gesture, something meant to show the Hound she wasn't mad at him; then, as her hand came closer, she realized she wanted to touch him – out of curiosity, because his chest was so uncommonly large and probably because she felt confident enough at that moment. Was he able to read her intentions or not? Sansa couldn't tell, but as soon as her fingers brushed his woolen waistcoat, he stiffened. _He doesn't like to be touched, she thought. Or maybe he's not used to it. Is it why he wrapped me in a blanket?_

Her hand fell on her lap and she wondered what they were talking about before. _Trant. The Red Mansion. Joffrey._ She quivered and began to sob again. Taking his crumpled handkerchief from her hands, he wiped her cheeks with careful and almost tender gestures. The more he dabbed her eyes, the more makeup stained his handkerchief; the powder but above all the mascara and even the lipstick dirtied the white fabric. She suddenly realized how ridiculous she must look, wrapped in a blanket like a child, with her makeup running down her cheeks.

"I must be ugly," she stated. "And I ruined your handkerchief."

He didn't answer and smiled a twitching half-smile. There was no lust in his gray eyes, only amusement and something more she couldn't quite identify. Without any warning, he kissed the crown of her head and mumbled _'Little Bird'_. _That's it. I don't know what I had in mind, but the truth comes down to this: he treats me like a pet._ Sansa sighed, slightly vexed.

The crackles of the needle against the record, after the end of the song, made her jump. She shifted, then tried to stand up; he nevertheless preempted her move and put her on her feet before walking to the phonograph.

"What was that music you always listened to when you lived in the Red Mansion?" he asked her, rummaging through the box containing her records.

"Allegri's _Miserere_ ," she replied. "I will cry even more if I listen to it."

"No _Miserere_ for the Little Bird tonight," he whispered to himself.

He finally picked a sleeve and placed the 78 rpm on the turntable, before going back to her. As she stood by the large leather armchair, he stopped in front of her.

"You don't want to sit down?" he asked, showing the armchair with an incline of his head.

She remained silent at first and she noticed how he casually shoved his hands in his pockets, how his chest rose and fell with every breath, how his shoulders were large. And welcoming, she thought, blushing. She soon realized she was staring at him, unbeknownst to her. She was staring and instead of mocking her like he usually did, he said nothing – he hardly shifted from foot to foot.

"No, you- you sit down," she finally answered, averting her eyes.

The Hound obeyed silently, watching her as she turned to him, then as she gingerly sat on his knees. She met his gaze, hesitation making him frown.

"Like earlier?" he asked.

She nodded. In one swift motion, he pulled her close, so that her head rested against his chest. She felt his arm wrapped around her waist and she began to hum.

"What is this song?" she asked. "Baelish offered me more records yesterday and I think I never heard this one before."

"It's called _Lovesick Blues_ ," he answered lazily.

 

 

 

_Well, I'm in love, I'm in love, with a beautiful gal_

_That's what's the matter with me_

_Well, I'm in love, I'm in love, with a beautiful gal_

_But she don't care about me_

The Hound suddenly cleared his throat.

"I chose at random," he added.

_You don't need to explain yourself, do you ?_ She repressed a smile, but with his chin resting on the top of her head, she doubted he could see her. Time went by slowly as he held her in his arms; she finally told him what she remembered about her aggression – though panic and loss of consciousness wrapped her memories in a frightening haze. She explained him she didn't sleep well, nor was she able to focus on the preparations for the show. She cried once more and he wiped her tears. She even mentioned Berdokhovski and the stupid nickname she had given him, because she couldn't stand his habit to call her _'Sweet sister'_.

The only topic she didn't discuss with him was Evie: Sansa admitted she had not stomached the young woman's revelations yet. She simply didn't know what to do about it. From time to time, the Hound would stand up and pick another record before going back to her.

"It's time, I have to go," he finally said.

She shook her head in denial, then watched the clock resting on the console table and sighed when she saw he was right. As she was sitting across his lap and seemingly refused to move, he brushed her cheek with his knuckles.

"I have to go, Little Bird, or else Baelish will kick me out."

_As if he could._ She frowned, thinking of all the reasons why she wanted to leave that place.

"Can't we run away tonight?" she asked, her begging tone conveying her desperation.

"No, we can't. I'm positive."

He expected her to get on her feet or at least to let him stand up but she didn't move and slightly stiffened in his arms.

"Stay."

"What?" he rasped.

"Stay. Unless you have some dirty job to do for Joff... I need you here."

She might be ugly with the makeup darkening her lower eyelids, but her pout was as convincing as ever.

"You- You can't be serious!" he stammered.

If his disconcerted look was any indication, he frantically searched his mind for an unpleasant remark that would shut her up. In the end, he probably gave up, for he shook his head in frustration.

"And how am I going to do that, girl? If I don't leave this place within a few minutes..."

"You can leave, then sneak in," she replied. "You said I'll have to sneak out using the window in my bathroom. It's the same. You'll show me how to do it."

He chuckled.

"Why do you refuse?" she insisted. "Do you have some reason to leave me here, alone...? Some reason with beautiful eyes and-"

"No," he rasped, cutting her off.

His gray eyes were serious now. She felt his muscles tense and she regretted cornering him with her questions.

"Stay, then," she whispered. "Don't make me beg you."

He swallowed hard; watching his Adam's apple rise and fell in his throat, Sansa waited for his answer, wringing her hands under the blanket.

"Alright," he said. "Show me that window again."

* * *

 _Do as if you were going to bed and open your window_ , he had said, before exiting her room and making noise in the staircase so that nobody could ignore he was leaving. She immediately went to the bathroom, took off her dress and put on a nightgown, then her dressing gown – the nights were rather cold at fall and she thought it was more appropriate if the Hound spent the night in her room. She washed her face, undid her bun and plaited her long auburn hair.

Then she sat on the rim of her bathtub and waited for him in the dark, as she had turned off all the lights, except the bedside lamp. _What is he doing? What if he get caught, if someone sees him?_ She beat time, her slipper hitting the tiled floor without her noticing at first, then more nervously when she realized how anxious she was. _But what's that song?_ Sansa kept on beating time, trying to remember the title of that tune obsessing her. She hummed and finally identified _Lovesick Blues_ ' cheerful and jazzy phrase. Emmett Miller sang it with a falsetto voice – something the Hound probably found ridiculous and she couldn't say she loved it – but a smile pulled the corners of her lips when she remembered his embarrassment as they listened to the song.

All of a sudden, she heard noise outside and she stood up briskly before going to the French window; the Hound was climbing the fire escape. She saw him looking up at her, hurrying in the metallic staircase and she stepped aside in time so that he could come in. His figure suddenly filled the window frame and he hesitated for a second as his eyes got used to the darkness – not that the back alley was well-lit, but the nearest street lamps shone enough to provide some light to the fire escape.

"I'm here," she mumbled, standing in the corner between the washstand and the toilet bowl.

He whispered something and she heard him pant.

"Nobody saw you?" she asked. "We're lucky: Baelish is not here tonight, nor Peitho. I think he took her to some party."

He didn't answer and followed her as she walked back to her bedroom. The dim light of the bedside lamp didn't allow her to read his expression. His unblinking look, as he blocked the door with a chair – that same chair Trant had used only days before – puzzled Sansa. Focused on his task, with his long dark hair covering his features, he seemed emotionless. The Hound had nevertheless noticed how she had stiffened at the sight of the chair blocking the door, for he felt the urge to explain himself.

"Just in case that blond whore decides to come and to tuck you in," he whispered. "Tell me, girl, what would shock her: seeing me in your bedroom or knowing that _you_ invited me?"

Planting himself in front of her, he teased her again with his fixed grin.

"She would disapprove both," Sansa retorted, "but certainly not as much as my decision to leave this place with your help. A choice I often question when I hear you talk about women. I don't like your innuendos."

He tried to stare her down, his eyes narrowing, but he finally gave up.

"If the Little Bird is angry at me, it means she's getting better. Does she still need me here?"

A hint of disdain lingered on his tone as he stepped forward, towering above her. She restrained herself from biting back some cutting remark but, in the end, the fact that neither of them wanted to answer the Hound's question lowered the pressure.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, wondering if she should take off her dressing gown or not. She decided to remove it hastily, before slipping under the covers; in the meanwhile, the Hound had grabbed the blanket he had wrapped her in earlier and he had settled himself in the leather armchair. Staring at the ceiling, Sansa frowned when she heard him let out a deep sigh as if he readied himself to spend the night sitting in the armchair. _That's not what I wanted. And he should know it._

"You don't turn off the lights?" he asked in an undertone. "The little girl wants a dog sleeping by her side _and_ a bedside lamp?"

She sat up abruptly and looked daggers at him, wondering if he just enjoyed mocking  her or if there was something else.

"While on the subject, why wouldn't you sleep by my side?"

She had spoken curtly and he gaped as she patted the edge of the bed. For a while, he hesitated, wondering about her answer: was it utter provocation, like a cheeky response to his taunting, or was she serious? In the end, he probably decided he didn't want to let the opportunity pass him by and crossed the space between the armchair and the bed, before wordlessly lying down on the bedspread.

"Your shoes," she said, before turning off the light.

She heard him remove his shoes in the dark – the rug hardly muffling the thud as he carelessly dropped them – then he rolled on one side.


	5. Rubies or garnets?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You can sneak in," Sansa replied. "Like last night."  
> As soon as she uttered those words, she felt terribly stupid; she sounded shameless and he could take this as an encouragement to eye her again. He repressed a laugh.  
> "Listen to you, Little Bird. Two or three weeks in a whorehouse and you tell me how I can sneak in and sneak out. What's next? Are you going to teach me how to break a man's knees or how to dispose of a body?"  
> "It's not funny."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for foul language, racist remarks and violence.

The mattress moved under her sleeping form and she mumbled incoherent words before opening her eyes and seeing the large back of a man sitting on the other side of the bed. The jangling of his belt completely awakened Sansa. All she could see in the pale light of daybreak was his dark hair falling on broad shoulders. Sleep had left creases on his shirt. As he bent over to put on his shoes, the mattress moved again: she remembered the events of the night and suddenly felt dizzy.

She had fallen asleep before him – she recalled that he rolled over in bed – and nightmares had spared her, for a change. Sansa had slept so well she hardly remembered the Hound slipping under the sheets during the night, because he was cold. At the back of her sleepy mind, she had kept the notion that they were very close and that she should stay in her half of the bed for fear that her attitude was misconceived. _Or mocked. Even when I offered him to stay, he taunted me. Sometimes he's a fool._

Said fool was standing up and turning to her, his shirt full of creases under his waistcoat. She turned on the light and the glass lampshade projected orange hues on the walls.

"Thought you were asleep," he whispered.

His long hair half covered his face as he looked down at her. As he swept her form, Sansa found the steel-gray eyes unreadable; squirming under his gaze, she sat up and pulled the blankets to her chin.

"Go back to sleep. Your... companions get up late. Whores are not early birds, girl."

She wondered if the situation was familiar to him, if he often spent the night in the brothel when he slept with a prostitute, or if he went back to the Red Mansion in the dead of the night. _His visits are short_ , she decided, noticing his unease. That realization determined her to get up and to walk around the bed despite his protestations.

"Go back to bed immediately!" he said in an undertone. "What are you-"

Sansa was already tugging at the hem of his waistcoat, then she repressed a smile when she noticed he had buttoned the wrong hole; she tried to ignore his clenched teeth and his stiffening movement as she fixed his waistcoat.

"You don't need to do that, nobody pays attention to an old dog," he rasped.

She raised her eyes, her blue iris conveying her surprise and her irritation. _I do._ He watched her carefully, taking in her seriousness, then he brushed back his hair, deliberately exposing the scars, the cracks and the hole replacing his ear. _Does he think I will flinch like I did in the Red Mansion?_ The sight of his burns was certainly not a pleasant one, but it didn't terrify her anymore.

When he understood his scars had lost their effect on her, his attitude changed and a cruel smile twitched his lips; he let his eyes fall to the neckline of her nightgown. As he leered at her shamelessly, taking his time, his look lingering on her breasts, her hips and he seemingly enjoying her embarrassment, she averted her gaze and stepped back. Until now, she couldn't stand being watched like this – it didn't matter if it was the Hound or another man – and he knew it: Sansa wondered if she would someday get used to this situation and if it would be a good change or not.

Despite the unpleasant sensation that her cheeks were hot enough to warm up the bedroom, she followed him as he took his overcoat, then walked to the bathroom.

"Go back to bed," he insisted, without even looking at her.

"No, wait. When will you come back?"

During his previous visits, Sansa had asked _if_ he would come back, not _when_. She realized it afterward and she bit her lip. How would he take her question? Would he find her too confident about her beauty, her drawing power? Would he brutally remind her that she was just a girl among hundreds of women who were prettier and much more brazen with men? The Hound stopped mid-stride, his overcoat hanging on his arm; turning to face her, he took the time to put on the warm garment before answering.

"Don't know yet. You're quite popular and I'm busy. And you're expensive, girl. You have no idea."

On that note, he resumed watching her, his eyes roaming over her curves as if he didn't know when he would see her again.

"You can sneak in," she replied. "Like last night."

As soon as she uttered those words, she felt terribly stupid; she sounded shameless and he could take this as an encouragement to eye her again. He repressed a laugh.

"Listen to you, Little Bird. Two or three weeks in a whorehouse and you tell me how I can sneak in and sneak out. What's next? Are you going to teach me how to break a man's knees or how to dispose of a body?"

"It's not funny."

Sansa pouted but she was relieved he didn't seize the opportunity to make her cringe with some innuendo. He opened the window and had already reached the platform of the fire escape; facing her, he brushed her cheek with his knuckles.

"I'll come back," he said in an undertone. "Soon. Now I've got things to sort out."

_Like our flight?_ No matter how the prospect thrilled her, Sansa reluctantly let him go. She observed him as he went downstairs; she saw his massive figure through the ladder of the fire escape, neatly at first, then almost disappearing behind the metallic layers. When he reached the ground, he briskly walked away and she didn't know if he had looked at her before hurrying to the Red Mansion.

Shutting the window, she went back to her bedroom and stopped in front of the four poster bed; instead of going to what she could call _her_ side of the bed, she purposefully slid her hand under the covers where he had slept. The sheets were still warm: on an impulse, she pushed the blankets and lied down. Under her back, she felt the remains of his warmth the mattress had kept so far. He had spent the night there, lying on one side or staring at the ceiling, while she slept peacefully. His head rested on that pillow as he had finally begun to snore – now she remembered that detail. It was a strange sensation to recline where he had slept and to feel against her skin the little warmth that he had left in the sheets: as she snuggled up on the bed, she could imagine he was still there, by her side.

* * *

In Baelish's house, some rules were set in stone. Long before Peitho became the madam, mornings were dedicated to chores and all the girls were supposed to help clean the rooms. Two by two, they opened the windows, stripped the beds and beat rugs; they didn't tidy their own room. Following Peitho's orders, each pair of girls cleaned the other inhabitants'.

"Here we are," Jo sighed, when the madam was out of reach. "The influence of socialism and collectivism. You don't clean your room, but your neighbor's. One day, the snooty Russian is going to tell me I'll share my wardrobe with Dorothy or Lois."

"You never know with Reds. Maybe Peitho will tell us to share men," Meg suggested, chuckling. "I'd rather take Viola's or Edna's regular customers, in this case!"

"What do you think, Sansa?" Jo asked her abruptly. "Would you share your elegant Russian customer or the creepy one with us, if Peitho turns this place into a bolshevik brothel?"

Sansa doubted Peitho, who placed a value on private property could be a communist but the notion of sharing the Hound with someone else made her blush deeply. Her embarrassment raised a smile from the girls. Sansa evaded chores and only had to tidy her own room basically before the old cook did the housework: Peitho had decided after her arrival that Sansa would help her dress and do her hair instead of cleaning, unintentionally giving the girls another motive to envy Baelish's protege.

Thus, Sansa knocked at Peitho's door every morning and combed her long golden hair while the madam talked with her. Peitho usually did all the talking, telling stories about her stay in Paris or giving the girl advices about men, as she was sitting in front of her dressing table. At some point – most often when her hair was done and when she began to think of the jewels she wanted to wear – Peitho invariably asked her about the dance routine she was working on.

That morning, as she did her best to forget her arguments with the Hound and the confusing twist of their relationship, Sansa struggled with Peitho's low chignon. She had to start over twice before getting a satisfactory result.

"What's wrong with you today, child?" Peitho inquired, putting a protective hand on Sansa's wrist.

They were in front of the large mirror of the madam's dressing table, the girl standing behind Peitho and fearing that she could notice her turmoil.

"I think I'm nervous."

"I can see that!" the madam exclaimed, looking insistently at Sansa's reflection on the mirror and boring into her blue eyes. "Why is that? Are you afraid of singing on stage?"

"Of course I am," Sansa replied, taking the ball on the hop.

She searched her mind to change the subject and she suddenly had an epiphany. _For a change._

"Your dress is almost ready, Peitho," she announced, smiling. "I'd like you to try it on."

Still sitting on her chair, the blond woman turned around and casually rested her elbow on the back of her seat.

"You finished it?" she exclaimed.

Her dark eyes shone with a childish delight at the thought of having a new dress. Sansa ran to her bedroom, took the black dress she had altered, then went back to the madam's room. As soon as the girl closed the door, Peitho took off the spectacular kimono she wore as a dressing gown. The silken fabric with a crane flying over cherry branches fell to the floor and Sansa averted her eyes when she saw the madam only had her 'step-in' panties on.

"Oh, come on, child," Peitho protested. "There's no need for ceremony between us."

While she fought her natural tendency to blush whenever someone offended her modesty, Sansa pondered on the blond woman's attitude; Peitho never left anything to chance and there had to be a reason why she planted herself half-naked in front of the girl, a large grin on her face. Sansa convinced herself she would mock her prudery; she therefore almost gaped when the madam brushed her cheek.

"You're so lovely," Peitho said with a hint of foreign accent.

"I thought you would laugh at me again, because I always blush."

"That's adorable, Sansa. I know we had that conversation before and I told you it was stupid, but I changed my mind. The strict education you received is certainly your best asset, even in our shady world."

"The other girls always point out to me how I blush and how naïve I am," the girl complained.

"That's because they envy you!"

"It doesn't feel like it when they tease me."

The blond woman took Sansa's hand and led her to her huge closet. Standing behind the girl and holding her upper arms, she gestured at the cheval mirror, next to the wardrobe.

"What do you see, child?"

"Me. Blushing."

When Peitho stood up half-naked in front of her, Sansa could avert her gaze or look at her straight in the eyes; it was much more difficult to ignore her bare chest when she had to observe their reflection.

"I'm going to tell you what I see, then," the blond woman said in a whisper. "I see a young and beautiful girl, elegant and polite, who dances and sings better than some of the artists I know. You're young, that's why the girls envied you at first. Then they noticed how well-mannered you are. That's why some of them are jealous of you. You possess something they'll never have. When they mock your red cheeks and your scandalized look, they do it out of jealousy. No matter how hard they try, 'elegance' is not the word a man would associate with Viola or Mary."

Peitho stepped aside and turned slightly to face the girl.

"You know I tried to teach them good manners, when I arrived, a year ago?" she asked Sansa. "I soon felt helpless and I gave up... Edna almost looks the part for five minutes before a customer notices she's a silly goose, but the rest of them is a lost cause, if you want my opinion. So when I saw you, I understood Baelish had found a gem, a girl who would become a courtesan instead of being a whore. You know what is a courtesan, right?"

"I've heard that word before," Sansa shyly answered.

"In Paris, before the Great War, some prostitutes were much more than common whores," Peitho explained. "They gave parties, hosted influential men and even inspired artists. Some of them were more famous than writers and painters of the time: that's what I call a courtesan. None of us can look like a girl of eighteen forever, but if you're smart and well-educated, you can last in this trade. Even a beautiful girl like Viola will be forgotten the day her breasts sag. You and I are different. We're graceful – Viola would say classy – and... we're smarter. The day I saw you, I said to myself we were the same."

_The same?_ Sansa found it difficult not to make a face and she tried to smile back at the blond woman whose minimalist outfit – ivory satin panties, silver bracelet and feathered slippers – was at odds with her own idea of elegance. Even if she took pride in the certainty that she was different from Peitho, Sansa admitted that she had a good point about the girls' attitude toward her.

"It's easy to teach you how to be more confident," Peitho added. "A few more weeks and you'll be in your element, but trust me: turning Jo or Meg into perfect ladies is a long-term job... Look at you: I'm here, half-naked in front of you and you don't blush anymore."

Sighing, she turned around and slipped on the dress Sansa had altered for her. _Am I really going to get used to this?_

"You'll rule your own place, someday," Peitho promised. "Or you'll be an influential man's mistress. I don't know yet."

With her thin legs and small breasts, the madam still had a youthful figure. One could see her fair skin was perhaps not as smooth as before, but Baelish's mistress was beyond doubt an attractive woman. When she spun on her heels so that Sansa saw how the dress looked on her; the girl smiled encouragingly and stepped aside, leaving the madam in front of the mirror.

"Not so bad," Sansa said. "I mean the dress... You, you look beautiful."

Peitho's triumphant smile when she saw her reflection was the best reward the girl could imagine. The last tableau of the show evoked fairy tales' heroins and the madam had asked Sansa to make her look like an enchantress; the girl had chosen an old black dress with a simple and straight cut to transform it. She had sewed seed beads on the straps and long lines of sequins on the dress, contrasting with the velvety fabric. The hem had given her a hard time: she wanted to create a sort of train, and therefore had used shreds of black and gray silk. Dozens of tatters had been necessary to give the illusion that the madam didn't walk like common people but almost floated inches above the ground.

"Can you walk?" Sansa asked. "Do you think you can move without stepping on the train?"

When Peitho faced her, she seemed a bit vexed that the girl questioned her ability to walk without ruining the dress.

"This is amazing, Sansa. I already feel like a witch."

She opened her arms and hugged the girl.

"I took it upon myself and began to make a sort of cloak," Sansa explained as the madam let go of her. "You'll look more mysterious with it."

"Now I feel like a spoiled child!" Peitho protested. "But what kind of jewels am I going to wear with this outfit?"

She slowly walked to the dressing table, opened one of the drawers containing her jewel boxes and sighed. "Sansa, a suggestion?"

"Hmm... Something red, to contrast with your black dress."

Peitho retrieved two small boxes from the drawer and put them on the dressing table.

"Help me, child. We have rubies and garnets: earrings and necklace, in both cases."

Sansa helped her with the necklace while she tried the dangle earrings. Both sets of jewels looked beautiful and would be perfect on stage, to Peitho's great confusion.

"How can I choose?" she complained. "Sansa, you decide: rubies or garnets?"

Sansa hesitated, watching the madam who looked at her reflection in the mirror.

"Why wear garnets when you can have rubies?" she finally offered.

Peitho turned around to give her a surprised and admiring look: she clearly didn't expect such a comment from Sansa. The girl's bearing didn't completely matched the haughtiness her words conveyed but Peitho loved that new side of Sansa's personality. _That's what Cersei would have answered_ , she mused. Once more, the changes she went through puzzled her and she quickly left, claiming she had to finish Peitho's cloak.

Sansa sought peace and privacy in her bedroom and instantly frowned when she saw the cook inside; the old woman daily cleaned her room, but at this hour of the morning, nothing explained her presence upstairs.

"Can we talk?" the cook asked her, once Sansa had shut the door.

The old woman stood near the four poster bed, her hands folded, the dirty sheets forming a heap at her feet. She was shorter than Sansa, with a stumpy figure and a wrinkled face; her thin grayish hair formed a small bun.

"I can help you."

Sansa noticed for the first time how determined her pale blue eyes looked. She knew the cook didn't stay to talk with her unless there was some serious matter and she had quite an idea of how the woman could help her, yet she refused to yield so easily. _With Joffrey and Cersei, you never know. She could spy for them._

"What are you talking about?" she asked her coldly.

The cook stepped forward.

"I saw what that man did to you. You don't remember it, but I was there when Jo opened the door. You can't stay here."

Her eyes, her seriousness, even the way she shook her head seemed sincere, but Sansa had been deluding herself so cruelly during the past two years her distrust bordered on paranoia. If the Hound had born the consequences of her suspiciousness, there was no reason why she would take the old cook's word for it.

"If Joffrey Baratheon sent me here, I'm not supposed to leave this house. I belong here now."

"You don't trust me?" the woman said, her eyes widening in disbelief.

"Why would I? You work for Mister Baelish and Baelish works for Joffrey."

Shrugging, Sansa walked to the console table where she had left her needlework; the black fabric of Peitho's cloak stood out against the red satin of her own mantle.

"I'm from Minnesota, as well."

Sansa repressed a laugh and turned to her.

"So that's the reason why I should trust you?" she told the old woman. "Frankly, what do you plan to do? How would you help me go back to Saint-Paul, supposing you're not a liar?"

"I don't know yet. I just decided I would help you if I could."

Her wrinkled face expressed the utter embarrassment of someone who wanted to play the part of a hero but who found out the costume was a bit too big. Sansa suddenly feared her determination would weaken if the cook stayed any longer.

"What's your name?" she asked the old woman.

"People call me Rose. I was born in a village north of Saint-Paul, that's why-"

"I have to think about it, Rose," Sansa cut her off. "I'll let you know once I've made my decision."

She could see in the faded blue eyes that the woman took it badly and rued her hesitation; Rose nevertheless left the bedroom after picking the heap of dirty linen.

* * *

She had slept, shielded by his massive form: that idea and the memories of that night – the Hound's snoring, their argument, the sensation of going back to sleep in his half of the bed – invaded her mind and didn't give her any respite. No matter how hard she tried to busy herself with her needlework, the image of the Hound leaving the armchair to lie down on the bed, next to her, came back when she didn't expect it.

Disheartened by her lack of willpower, she finally went downstairs for the rehearsal. The girls were already in the meeting hall, gathered around the piano and Sansa wondered why her companions had found some interest in music. Viola and several other girls' giggling gave her a clue. _A man. Why would girls who don't understand anything to music and say they despise artists suddenly flock together if not for a man?_ Sansa bit her lip, realizing afterward what a sharp tongue she sometimes had. She nonetheless came closer.

Edna lectured everyone and told them to get back to their tasks. Edna was a splendid woman in her late twenties, with black bobbed hair and big blue eyes; though she was not very talkative, the other girls always respected her. Her intervention allowed Sansa to catch a glimpse at the girls' center of attention. Behind the upright piano, a young man with sandy hair smiled while searching a pile of musical scores. Under Edna's orders, the girls scattered across the meeting hall, some climbing on stage while others waited or chatted together. Sansa stayed a few yards from the piano, observing the visitor.

He was hardly older than her, he had handsome features and something about him revealed he was well aware of his attraction. The young musician suddenly raised his eyes from the keyboard and met Sansa's gaze.

"Do you remember me?" he asked, grinning.

Sansa hesitated for a few seconds, trying to recall where she could have seen this man, but neither his tenor voice nor his good looks seemed familiar.

"New Year's Eve, at the Red Mansion," he said. "The Baratheons – the Lannisters I should say now – hosted a party. I was with the band. Of course, you don't remember me. I was just part of the furniture, at that time. But things change."

He looked at her insistently, as if taking cognizance of her fall. Sansa felt ill-at-ease and quickly walked away, joining Edna who wanted to keep a close watch on the girls' dancing routine. The pianist began to play.

"You're too slow, Meg!" Edna shouted across the large room. "You have to work on it for tomorrow night. God, Sansa, I hope your rendition of _You'd be surprised_ will be better."

No one had heard her except Sansa, who sighed deeply. She didn't like the pianist's penetrating gaze; from the corner of her eyes, she saw him staring at her while playing _Hot Lips_.

"Well, I don't like his rendition of the song," the girl commented. "It's supposed to be a Foxtrot, not a battle hymn."

Edna rolled her eyes when she heard Sansa complaining; she turned to her and tilted her head.

"Oh, please, Sansa, we all know you're a music-lover, but Peitho had had enough difficulties to find a decent band so... don't ruin everything. And I'm sure it will be better once the other musicians are here. Look, the girls already love him."

Seemingly amused, Edna pointed at Viola who did her best to attract the young man's attention, standing by his side and whispering into his ear.

"What's his name by the way?" Sansa asked.

"Marillion, but I don't remember the band's name. Who cares, after all? It's just a bunch of penniless musicians, like so many other bands in New York."

_Marillion? What kind of name is that?_

"Your turn, now," Edna told her as the piano went silent. "Make us proud."

"He'd better not butcher Irving Berlin's music," Sansa mumbled to herself.

She walked to the stage, while the dancers hurried to the armchairs, as if the rehearsal had drained their energy, and she deliberately ignored Marillion's grin.

* * *

"We're just copying from the _Ziegfeld Follies_ , on Broadway," Viola spat. "Except nobody knows us and we're neither dancers nor singers."

Half an hour before the beginning of the show, tension filled Baelish's house, unnerving the most even-tempered girls, making some of them hysterical and plunging the brothel into utter chaos. Sansa herself felt like she didn't remember the lyrics of the songs she was supposed to sing, nor the dancing routine she had worked so hard on. The cluster of women gathered in the meeting hall turned to Peitho, waiting for her reaction after Viola's remark. _This is mutiny_. A hush fell over the girls as they saw the madam calmly staring at Viola.

"While I sing a song or while Sansa dances, you'll entertain our customers. I don't think they have girls like you to entertain the audience, out there," the blond madam said with a coaxing smile.

"I'm sorry Peitho, but my cousin told me some of the girls dancing in this show often end up in bed with members of the audience," Edna pointed out. "I've heard some pretty nasty things happen offstage."

As she never talked all over the place, Edna's advice was generally approved. Her remark about the loose morals of the _Ziegfeld Follies_ dancers made her companions whisper.

"Why would they come here, then?" Viola exclaimed. "If they can watch better dancers and fuck them for free after the show, why in hell would they come here? Where are the customers?" She showed the large room with a sweeping gesture. "It's almost time and nobody's here!"

Though she was not fond of the dark-haired girl, Sansa admitted she was right: the emptiness of the meeting hall so few minutes before the opener – only the girls and Marillion's jazz band occupied the huge room – was nothing less than depressing. Around Viola, the girls prattled, convinced that the brunette could be right. Peitho stiffened a bit and Sansa wondered how the madam would get herself out of the situation.

"Well..." the blond woman began, casually bringing her hands on her hips, "if a man can spend the night with one of these dancers for free, it probably means they're not what you would call a good fuck, dear." Peitho swayed her hips toward Viola and planted herself in front of her, a seductive smile on her lips. "Men will gladly pay their entrance tickets because we are who we are. Right, girls?"

As the girls started to laugh, Viola's eyes darkened with frustration.

"She's got you there!" Jo shouted, patting Viola's back.

At the other end of the meeting hall, a whistling surprised everyone. Sansa turned to see a group of five men coming in and eying the girls – the first customers of their first show. Instead of taking advantage of the men's arrival to humiliate Viola, Peitho sent the girls to the wings set up behind the stage and welcomed the visitors. The show began late that night, because men regularly came in.

From the wings where she waited with Meg, Sansa watched their arrival one by one or in small groups. There were rich men, old or young, some who postured and also men who probably belonged to the shady world of bootleggers. Once in the meeting hall, they wiped their face and some shook their coat, thus showing the rain was pouring outside. Marillion's band – a jazz band of nine musicians – played cheerful tunes until Marillion himself hurried into the wings, causing more agitation than necessary among the girls.

"What's the opener?" he asked nervously. "Peitho told me it was _You'd be surprised_ , then Edna told me it had to be a tableau-"

Sansa steadily put up her hand, as if she was at school.

"The opener is _You'd be surprised_ ," she answered, repressing a nervous shiver. "I'm the one who sings that song."

* * *

Meryn Trant had always hated staking out people who were indebted with Cersei.

Staying in a car for hours and observing someone's comings and goings was a bloody stupid way of spending his nights. He usually had difficulties in knowing what Cersei had in mind; did she want information about the target or did she expect him to threaten the dickhead who had forgotten where his loyalties lied? Was he supposed to stay in hiding or should he make himself seen, so that the moron shitted his pants? Meryn had no idea and he therefore spent his time cursing silently in the black Oldsmobile 45A, after pulling over in the darkest corner of the street.

Once the stake out began, he had nothing to do except stare at the store front and wait for the owner to make a mistake: if the fool talked to one of the Lannisters' rivals, or even worse, to the police, he knew what he had to do. As soon as the man would be alone, Meryn would open the car door and he would walk to the shop before his prey had enough time to close. He didn't know what he preferred: the moment when he felt his shoulder holster, hidden under his overcoat or the terrified look of the man he was about to harm. _Or to kill._

Sometimes the man he stalked had pissed Cersei off and she didn't care if Meryn killed him or not. Sometimes she even wanted him dead. Meryn's main problem was to decide when her orders had not been clear enough. Like the other day, with that nigger who owned a small café in Jamaica. _Cersei should have told me she just wanted me to beat the crap out of him. He can't complain anymore, now._

He froze his ass off in the Oldsmobile. Even if it was a rather new model with its windshield wiper and comfortable seats, it didn't change anything when he had to spend the night inside at the beginning of winter; November was pretty chilly and Meryn mindlessly rubbed his gloved hands.

Two flappers moved past the car, trying to avoid puddles on the sidewalk and providing a welcome distraction: one was tall and bony but the other one, a short brunette, had a pretty ass. Both wore evening dresses and silk stockings, but the short one's fur revealed her curves while the lanky girl was wrapped in her woolen coat. At some point, the tall one glanced over her shoulder and saw him staring behind the windshield. Meryn smiled a crooked smile, removing the toothpick from his mouth, but the snooty girl looked offended and lengthened her strides while her companion protested and tried to catch up with her. As the short one suddenly sped up, Meryn couldn't get his eyes off of her rounded buttocks; she diverted his attention until both women disappeared at the corner of the street. Meryn sighed in frustration and settled back in his seat.

_A whore, I need a whore._ He should be having fun in some brothel instead of being bored to death near the entrance of a speakeasy. Even the place where he had to stake out reminded him of his needs. Why couldn't he get out of the car, go in and have a drink? He would have killed for some gin. For a second, he fancied himself inside, sipping alcohol and eying the girls who wiggled their asses in front of the jazz band. Thrill seekers, inevitably; he would give them what they wanted... He shook his head, a pained expression on his face as his cock hardened. Cersei had been adamant: she wanted him to keep a close eye of the owner and to remind him of his obligations towards the Lannisters. Meryn couldn't infringe her orders.

What Jenkings, the _Alexandria_ 's owner, had done to fall into disfavor, he didn't know and he couldn't care less. The Kettleblacks had whispered something about the last delivery which Jenkings had refused to pay, but Osmund and Osney were so dumb, one should never take for granted what they say. Most of the time, Meryn didn't need to know precisely what the man had done: giving a kick up his ass or just showing up after the shutting had cured the man's amnesia. Some even confessed things Meryn never asked them about. Fear was certainly efficient against memory lapses; thus, Meryn generally ignored why his evening hosts were on bad terms with the Lannisters but it never prevented him from doing his job.

More customers came in and left under the pale light of street lamps, forcing Meryn to watch them carefully: if that asshole who owned the _Alexandria_ slipped away, Cersei would have a fit. Cersei had lost her favorite punching bag the day Joffrey had given Sansa Stark to Baelish. _And since nature abhors a vacuum..._ He didn't want Cersei to get angry at him.

His thoughts went back to Sansa Stark. Though young Myrcella was more his kind of girl with her blond hair, Meryn admitted that the Stark girl was a delicious eye candy. _And Myrcella is Cersei's daughter, so... hands off._ The red-haired was rather interesting despite her knack to make wrong choices: a pretty girl with nobody to turn to, now that her old man was dead. Meryn had had a foretaste when Joffrey asked him to beat her; she had all of her pieces in the right place. Nobody would complain if someone played doctor with her... or so he had told himself before these crazy women kicked him out of the brothel. _But the girl..._ His cock twitched at the memory of her body exposed to him once he had carried her on the bed. She was even more mouth-watering when she panicked and he would go back to Baelish's brothel, if only to watch her doe-eyed stare and the tears that welled up in her eyes when she was terrified.

Meryn cursed as a hammering downpour began. He activated the windshield wiper, so as to catch a glimpse at the people who exited the _Alexandria_. A couple left the speakeasy, the man trying to protect his girlfriend's head with his overcoat and both laughing exasperatingly under the rain. _Fuck, I can't see anything._ Despite the windshield wiper, Meryn's vision was blurred. _Freezing, bored to death and unable to see anything thanks to the rain... a fucking night. Frankly, at my age, after years of good and faithful service, the Lannisters could spare me that kind of shitty missions..._

He suddenly gaped when he saw a figure leaving the _Alexandria_. At first, he wasn't sure, because the pouring rain, combined to darkness, prevented him from seeing the details, but that tailor-made suit claiming his owner was a fashionable man and that gray fedora belonged to Jenkings himself. A smile pulled the corner of Meryn's lips as he opened the car door and silently followed his prey. Jenkings, a slightly overweight middle-sized man, hurried himself on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched up and head down even if his umbrella sheltered him from the icy rain shower. Meryn loved that sort of man whose fears and uncertainties showed through the most common gestures.

Jenkings turned right in a back alley and thirty feet behind him, Meryn couldn't believe he had such a good fortune. _That jerk is leading me to the perfect place to get killed._ Despite the pouring rain, Jenkings heard something, for he abruptly turned around and looked at Meryn, who immediately touched his shoulder holster through the thick woolen fabric of his overcoat. At that moment, when his victim saw him, he felt like an actor making his entrance. And it was a dramatic entrance if Jenkings' terrified gaze was any indication: the baby-faced man was as pale as the thin white stripes on his suit. After a short while, Meryn stepped forward so that Jenkings could identify him.

"You- you work for the Lannisters," the chubby man stammered.

It sounded like a statement, not like a question. Meryn repressed a laugh.

"What do you want?" he went on, shaking like a leaf under his umbrella.

"I'm sure you know what I want."

_You'd better remember, as I don't know myself what the fuck you've done!_ Rain trickled down his face, wetting his collar and putting Meryn's patience to the test. He didn't want to stay any longer in that back alley, freezing under the rain. _I should have palmed this mission off to one of the Kettleblacks._ He stepped forward again and shoved the man. Jenkings lost his balance and dropped the umbrella while leaning against the nearest brick wall. _Too easy. It would be perfect if the fucking rain stopped._

"What do you want?" the terrified man insisted, trying to catch hold of the fedora that had fallen in a puddle. "I'm sure we can find an agreement."

"Why don't you pay Cersei?" Meryn asked, grabbing the man's collar and pinning him to the wall.

As he squeezed Jenkings' neck, the man began to gasp.

"I- I swear I don't owe her anything."

_Fuck._ The moron seemed too frightened not to be sincere. _So what is it?_

"Why would she send me here if you're not indebted with her?" Meryn growled.

The question was directed to himself more than to Jenkings.

"I don't know. I swear!" the man squeaked.

His lack of a satisfactory answer infuriated Meryn. Squeezing hard, he made the _Alexandria_ 's owner suffocate. As the man rolled his eyes and panicked, the old sensation came back. It was not as good as fucking a woman, but that, that impression that he had someone's life in his hands, that he could do anything... Meryn had not felt like that since his visit to Sansa Stark in Baelish's brothel. All-might intoxicated him, like Sansa's futile resistance the other day. When Jenkings stopped flailing, he let go with him and the man collapsed on the ground, splashing Meryn's shoes as his legs ended up in a puddle.

Instinctively, Meryn kicked his ribs and the man coughed. _He doesn't even try to resist._ Another kick didn't soothe his nerves: he felt like he needed something he couldn't quite express. Release tension, get rid of Cersei's disdain which frustrated him so much? _I'm going to kill that scumbag and then I'll go back to the brothel._ Sliding a hand under his overcoat, he reached the holster and took his gun. _Just to have fun._ As he squatted in front of Jenkings, the man's eyes widened and he gaped at the sight of the weapon.

"Speak," Meryn ordered. "Tell me why Cersei sent me."

Now the pathetic idiot lying on the ground wept and shook his head. Meryn eased the barrel in Jenkings' full lips, opening his own mouth in a mocking gesture. The man who was ten minutes earlier the successful owner of a well-known speakeasy had turned into a frightened little girl.

"Speak!"

With the barrel in his mouth, Jenkings dared not to move, for fear his assailant would fire accidentally. He forgot about the safety, Meryn mused. With unhurried gestures, he shifted slightly and removed the safety, enjoying the mans frantic glances at the metallic sound. _And I'm lucky: the rain finally stopped_ , he thought.

_What are you going to do with the body?_ That interrogation popped up in his mind as if reality suddenly caught up with him: his inability to answer dampened his spirits. The car was fucking too far and the man weighed too much. And Cersei had said she wanted them to leave no trace. Dumping the body anywhere the police could easily found it was out of the question. Reluctantly, he removed the barrel of Jenkings' mouth – to the man's great surprise – and, keeping the gun in his hand, he waved it under his nose.

"You'd better remember where your loyalties lie," he said, threatening.

He liked how his voice sounded and he loved the effect it produced on Jenkings: the man nodded eagerly, even if something in his eyes revealed he didn't understand. Then, without any other warning, Jenkings gaped and shielded his head with his arm.

"What the fuck are you-"

Meryn didn't have a chance to finish his sentence; someone threw himself on him and they both rolled about on the wet ground. _Who the fuck is this? I didn't know Jenkings had a bodyguard..._ The stranger punched him so forcefully he saw stars. An elbow shot made him yell and, in his peripheral vision, he caught sight of Jenkings, who sat up, leaning against the wall and staring at the scene. After a few seconds, the _Alexandria_ 's owner crawled to the place where Meryn had dropped his gun and grabbed it.

"I don't know what you want," Jenkings explained hesitatingly.

Whether he was addressing to him or to the third man, Meryn couldn't tell.

"Don't give a fuck about you," the stranger rasped. "You can go, for all I care."

His husky voice was thick with alcohol. Meryn seized the opportunity and contorted himself to reach the knife he kept in his boots; before the man pinning him to the ground could react, he dug the knife in his arm. The man got on his feet abruptly; though he managed to stay in a dark area of the back alley, his massive figure blocked the way. Meryn saw the broad shoulders, as the man cradled his wounded arm, and he noticed how the stranger seemed to catch his breath before throwing himself on him. _What kind of beast is this?_ The man stepped forward and Meryn's eyes widened. His assailant had brushed his long hair aside, revealing the ugliest facial scars Meryn had seen in his life. _Clegane? How is it possible?_ His ragged breath and his feverish gaze suggested the rage that had taken hold of him.

"Come on, Clegane. It's me, Trant-"

A violent blow sent him to the ground. Pain washed over him and the icy bite of steel against his throat was the last thing he felt before losing conscience.


	6. Little Red Riding Hood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound observed her, seemingly fascinated by the girl with a red satin cloak who opened the small bottle containing iodine and poured some orange liquid on a compress.   
> "You should be more careful with me, girl. If you're that fucking Red Riding Hood, then I'm the wolf."  
> "You could be the hunter."  
> He snorted.  
> "In the end, the wolf swallows the little girl and there's no fucking moral. The hunter was invented because modern kids are wimps, that's all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta reader, Underthenorthernlights, for her help!  
> Warning for adult themes and some dub con.

Sansa thought these three weeks she had spent in a brothel had been her worst experience; she believed Meryn Trant's visit would haunt her sleepless nights for the rest of her life, she considered that except the trauma of her parents' death – and perhaps the danger lurking in the darkness, threatening Robb's life – nothing else could happen to her. At some point, she had come to think that the Hound would help her escape before anything worse occurred. She had convinced herself the show was much better for her safety, that the yards between the stage and the front-row seats would protect her, but she had obviously forgotten one thing: the show they had prepared for days didn't take place in any theater. They were in a brothel.

The fact that Jo and Mary were busy in the refreshment area didn't bother her – to be honest, it had irritated her when one of the customers had laughed noisily during Sansa's rendition of You'd Be Surprised – but the way Viola and some other girls entertained men had shocked her. _I should have known, I should have anticipated this._ Still, she had blushed at the sight of one of the girls sitting down in the lap of a customer, remembering the Hound's last visit.

Then, when the man – a rather old man she knew she had met in the Red Mansion – had pinched the girl's cheeks and had begun to fondle her, Sansa had understood she would never forget that scene, nor the utter shock she had felt. Five minutes later, the man with a girl in his lap was almost a piece of furniture when she had sung _'What I'll Do.'_ She could almost ignore the couple and at the same time, her ability to adapt herself to these new surroundings infuriated her. _It's like renunciation. Father would be so sad. Sad and disappointed._ Out of respect for the makeup Peitho had applied on her face, she wiped her tears carefully once in the wings.

Later on, she rued the foolish idea that made her peer between the curtains; a girl – she didn't know who it was, and she didn't wish to know – knelt in front of a customer's open legs and the man settled back in his seat. What followed, she couldn't describe it. Even days after, she knew she wouldn't be able to think about it without feeling sick. The girl's wanton attitude, the ecstatic look on the customer's face as he tilted his head back: everything was at odds with what she expected from physical love.

When she was sixteen, Sansa thought she would later spend her nights with a loving husband able to reassure her, a man whose main concerns would be her feelings and the children they both wanted. She believed a man took care of his wife. That incident, incongruous and obscene, showed her she would never get accustomed to that life.

All of a sudden, she understood what the Hound had meant when he had offered her the books: somehow, he knew she would need them, as a virtual way to escape, as a momentary break in the long days she spent locked in the brothel. Her life was in danger with people such as Trant, she could be physically hurt any day, however there was an insidious threat she had overlooked so far: her mind and her soul could be damaged too, broken beyond repair by the things she saw everyday and above all, by the kind of relationship girls and customers had inside Baelish's house. Alienation and emotional abuse were as dangerous as mistreatment, perhaps even more: they left no trace.

She wished she was in her bedroom, alone with her book of poetry, and clenched her teeth. Girls danced and sang on stage, coming back in the wings while a round of applause recognized their talent – or their ability to unveil their charms.

The show went on, until Sansa sang _'There'll Be Some Changes Made.'_ She had chosen it after the Hound's visit, because when listening to the song with him, the lyrics had struck her. The song was not new: Sansa had bought that record two years before, a few weeks after her arrival in New York. However, she had never paid much attention to that tune, nor to the disenchantment the lyrics conveyed; interpreting that song was a personal challenge, as it stirred her to tears. When she arrived on stage, she did her best to ignore the girls engaged in heavy petting with the customers and focused on the music Marillion and his musicians played. Peitho had told her she could be a little more daring since the show drew to an end. It meant she could wiggle to the front-row's great pleasure, but what she had witnessed earlier had been enough: she simply sang that song, trying to be as sincere as she could.

_I'm going to change my way of living if that ain't enough,_

_Then I'll change the way I strut my stuff_

_Cause nobody wants you when you're old and gray._

_There'll be some changes made today, there'll be some changes made._

She had to admit that Marillion was not as bad a musician as she had told Edna. Carried away by enthusiasm, the musicians sped up the tempo and she felt in harmony with the band if not with the audience. As she sang the last verse, a roaring laughter disturbed the fragile equilibrium between Sansa's voice and the music; in the front-row, she saw Viola chuckling with a customer. The dark-haired girl's inconsiderateness combined with a hint of smug satisfaction, when she met Sansa's eyes, left little room for questions: Viola had done this on purpose. Cut to the quick, the girl decided she wouldn't let Viola push her around anymore. During the next act – a pantomime which gave the girls enough time to prepare before the last tableau evoking the fairy tales – she would ask Viola why she had ruined the end of her song.

Once in the wings, she silently took off the evening dress she wore while singing and donned the simpler outfit of Little Red Riding Hood. The red satin cloak she had tailored herself stood out against her white dress and apron. Next to her, half-naked versions of Cinderella and Rapunzel readied themselves, as Peitho slipped into her new black dress. _At least, someone perfectly embodies her role._ The madam looked regal and enigmatic in her black outfit, whereas the bunch of fairy tales heroins were simply pathetic. In the end, Viola arrived out of breath and Cinderella helped her with her costume – the dark haired girl played the role of Snow-White.

"What did you do?" Sansa asked her, putting all her energy and her anger in these few words.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Viola replied, a mischievous smile on her lips.

"She nibbled at that customer's ear," Rapunzel commented, combing her long wig and looking down at her plunging neckline. "It was quite mean to do that to you, kid."

"Let's say I showed you how things work here," Viola said. "Stop thinking you're superior. Men were falling asleep during your song, by the way."

"They were not! You're jealous, that's all!" Sansa almost shouted, forgetting the rule about silence in the wings.

Peitho quickly intervened, separating the girls who seemed ready to fight it out. One hand on Viola's shoulder and the other one on Sansa's upper arm, she firmly spoke in an undertone.

"No cat-fight under my roof. Is that clear?"

It was time to go back on stage: the girls looked daggers at each other and Sansa heard some of the other ones chuckling as she moved past them. The last tableau was a tasteless evocation of the fairy tales, a display of flesh, almost a catalog of the beauties Baelish's house offered. The vulgar, obscene act went on, as the enchantress – Peitho herself – introduced the heroines one after the other. Men whistled at Snow-White and laughed when Cinderella hiked up her skirt so that the fat prince – Jo, disguised as a man – helped her try on the glass slipper. Sansa, as Little Red Riding Hood, only had to carry a basket and to greet the audience. _I act as a foil._ It didn't bother her; she just wished the show ended and she could run to her bedroom.

She didn't lose time, when the final curtain went down. Instead of asking if she could help, she hastily climbed the stairs and hurried to her room, still wearing her red satin cloak. She could hear couples laughing on the landing and on the third floor, still she didn't pay much attention and closed the door behind her, exhaling. Without turning on the light, she leaned back against the door, and hit the wooden panel with the back of her head.

Sansa could tell herself nothing of this was real, neither the silly costume she wore, nor the scenes she had witnessed that night, nor the muffled sound of giggling on the third floor. She could throw herself on the bed, cry herself to sleep and finally cling to the idea that the next day would be different. _I can do that, but is it what I want? I know things will be the same tomorrow. Or even worse._

All of a sudden, the attraction for the balcony she had felt two weeks before came back; she wasn't sure she wanted to kill herself, but she certainly wished to feel fresh air on her skin and to see the city lights, like thousands of stars fallen from the sky. Wiping a tear that rolled down her cheek, she walked to the French window despite the darkness and she abruptly stopped by the phonograph, when she noticed the bathroom door was ajar; she could see the yellowish light the street lamp provided in the bathroom, through the small opening.

She didn't remember if she had left it that way before going downstairs – and she always closed the doors, a habit she had taken back in Saint-Paul, when she was but a little girl following her mother everywhere. Surprised and vaguely nervous, she went to the bathroom door and shut it a bit noisily, assuming a wind draft had opened the door during her absence. _I need to go to bed; five minutes on the balcony, then I'll take off that silly outfit and I'll be Sansa again instead of a little girl who fears wolves-_

As she reached the French window, someone pressed a large hand against her mouth, forced her to turn around and pinned her to the wall. Terrified, she uselessly tried to scream, but her assailant was way too strong and determined. She couldn't see anything in the darkness and only perceived the reek of alcohol and the metallic taste of blood on her gagged mouth. Sansa frantically flailed, convinced it was Trant, coming back for her.

"Easy, girl, it's just me," a raspy voice said.

She recognized the Hound, though he sounded different from the other day. _Drunk, he's drunk_ , she thought, as her heart still pounded wildly. He towered above her, pressing his body against hers; after he removed his hand from her mouth, he felt the satin of her cloak around her shoulders.

"What is it you wear?" he asked. "Is it a fucking nightgown or something?"

"No- no, it's not," she stammered. "It's a costume."

_What is he doing here? Why in all places did he choose to come here? If Baelish sees him in my bedroom-_ He didn't let go of her and almost dragged Sansa to the bedside table. Understanding any kind of resistance was pointless, she remained silent. The lamp tumbled out as he tried to turn it on and when the orange hues projected by the glass lampshade lit the room, she saw a scary version of the man who had cradled her two days ago: disheveled and dirty, his rolled up sleeve half torn and his shirt spattered with blood, he had gashes on his forearms and on his hands. His waistcoat seemed to hide a deeper cut near the collarbone. His feverish gaze startled her and she cringed when he pointed at her crimson cloak, licking his lips and giving a saturnine laugh.

"Who are you, the fucking Red Riding Hood?"

Humiliated and appalled, she tried to keep calm and imperceptibly stepped back.

"That's it. We had a show tonight," she steadily explained.

"A show, Little Bird? Does it mean you wiggled your ass in front of them all?"

_He's drunk and he doesn't know what he's saying._ Even while repeating it to herself in a desperate attempt to keep a cool head, Sansa couldn't help feeling scared and his hot gaze on her set her pulse racing. She noticed he had thrown his coat on the carpet, next to the bed; slowly, she picked it up, slightly shook the damp fabric and without a word, she walked around the bed to put the coat on the console table, where he generally left it.

"Good girl," she heard him whisper.

Sansa hesitated and gingerly went back to him, averting her eyes.

"What happened to you?" she asked in an undertone.

He shrugged, with the sulky offhandedness of a brat; she could watch him out of the corner of her eyes. Her costume made him laugh again and he took a step forward, then played with the thin cord fastening her cloak. His long fingers were dirty, covered in blood and grime.

"Is it your blood?" she went on. "If you're wounded, you should see a doctor... I'm sure you can ask Doctor Pycelle to come to the Red Mansion anytime."

The Hound slowly shook his head and tutted. "Only scratches," he answered.

"But your shirt-"

"Not my blood, girl. Not my blood."

Judging by his slurred speech and the sickening smell of whiskey that washed over Sansa every time he opened his mouth, he had drunk enough to knock down any other man.

"Whose blood is it, then?" she asked, hitting the high note.

He didn't reply and kept on playing with the cord around Sansa's neck. She bit her lip, fighting the persistent anxiety that made her shiver; looking up to him, she noticed a spark in his eyes she identified as blood-lust. _He beat someone. Maybe he killed that person. And now he's in my bedroom, drunk._

"Whose blood is it?" she insisted.

His eyes bored into hers with a violence she had not seen in him since she had left the Red Mansion. Letting go of the cord, he seized her shoulders, made her spin and almost threw her across the bed. A tiny cry escaped her lips as she landed on the mattress and before she managed to sit up, he straddled her.

"Anymore questions, young Miss?" he rasped, bending over so that his long hair brushed her face.

"You won't hurt me."

Sansa herself didn't know if it was a question, a statement or a plea; her voice sounded so nervous it could express anything and the Hound didn't reply. She shivered like a leaf and repressed the tears that inevitably pooled at the corner of her eyes, as he moved aside the red satin cloak to take a look at her dress. His hanging hair shadowed his face, concealing indifferently the burns and his good cheek, giving her the illusion that a huge faceless man leaned over her.

Her white dress was rather modest as she played the part of a little girl and the round neck seemed to disappoint him, for he shifted, moving back slightly on his knees, and he touched her apron. With unhurried movements, he pulled aside the apron and ran his fingertips on her skirt. She merely felt his hands on her thighs and the puzzled, almost serious expression on his face surprised Sansa. After a few seconds, the Hound seemed to remember where he was and who was lying down under his muscled legs; without any other warning, he snuffled noisily and got on his feet. Sansa dared not sit up because he still stared at her, his ragged breathing making his chest rise and fell.

"You're not forced to tell me, if you don't want to," she said shyly. "It's not my business, after all."

She expected an apology or a simple gesture, like helping her standing up, but he snorted with so much contempt she felt vexed before he opened his mouth.

"Should pin you to the bed more often; it makes you more docile."

Sansa hesitated, but he didn't react when she sat up, propped on her elbows; finally she got on her feet, still avoiding his gaze. She noticed one of his cuts had left a red trail on the skirt of her dress; the Hound had seen it too. She hastily tugged on her apron to hide it. The blood stains on his shirt and the gashes on his hands and forearms offered her a diversion.

"You can't go back to the Red Mansion like that, can you?" she whispered. "You should wash your face and hands, to begin with, and perhaps let me tend this wound."

She pointed at the bigger blood stain on his collarbone. He nodded wordlessly. _That's it. Sometimes, he just needs someone to tell him what to do and where to go._

"Please come."

He followed her to the bathroom; she made him wash his hands and forearms, turning on the faucet above his dirty hands, giving him some soap, then wiping his hands with a towel, as if he was a child. When she met his eyes again, the uncanny spark had disappeared and she only saw a weary man with dried blood on his forehead and cheeks.

"Your face," she told him.

He complied and splashed water on his face, splattering the tiles and Sansa's dress. Once more, she offered him a towel, then she bid him to sit down on the rim of the bathtub. She searched the closet until she found iodine and some compresses. The Hound observed her, seemingly fascinated by the girl with a red satin cloak who opened the small bottle containing iodine and poured some orange liquid on a compress. The absurd costume she still wore began to irritate her as the smooth fabric obstinately slid from her shoulder and she finally removed it, hanging it on the hook with her nightgown. Sansa planted herself in front of him, took a sharp intake of breath and applied the compress on his cheekbone where she had seen a cut. He cringed at once.

"It's alright," she said in a reassuring tone, putting her left hand on his shoulder.

He still didn't like the contact of her fingers: his muscles tensed under the wet fabric of his shirt. At the same time, she wondered why his shirt wasn't dry. Was it the rain? Was it sweat? She couldn't decide. Sansa kept cleaning the cuts on the good side of his face until half of it was covered by faint orange stains. Then, she turned to his scars. Whoever had fought with the Hound had scratched him on that side too.

"Can you hold back your hair, please?" she asked him.

He brushed aside his dark locks and did as he was bid, a sparkle of curiosity in his gray eyes. _He wants to know if I'm afraid of his burns_ , she mused. She wasn't. The scars were as ugly as she remembered, with cracks and even craters oozing pus; she patiently cleaned the fresh cuts and the old scars that reopened from time to time.

"Does it hurt?"

Sansa saw him clench his teeth, but he shook his head vehemently. _He's got the confidence of a child who lies to reassure the grown-ups._ She resumed her ministrations, applying a new compress on his face, throwing the used one in the bin.

"It's over," she finally announced. "Let's see that cut on your chest now. Remove your waistcoat and your shirt."

He obeyed her, curiosity lingering on his gaze as he dropped his black waistcoat then his shirt on the tiles. He looked up at her, straightening his back. _No, Sansa, don't._ A little voice in her head lectured her when she understood she was staring at him, appraising his bare chest. She knew he had broad shoulders, but seeing them was entirely different. The rippling muscles, the scar tissue, the dark hair growing on his torso: she had expected all these details and even though she imagined he could look like that, she felt impressed, moved that he agreed to take off his shirt in front of her. What he stirred up inside her, she couldn't put it into words but she knew she was blushing.

He didn't feel comfortable either, for he missed the chance to laugh at her; secluded in their own thoughts, they resumed their activities, Sansa taking another compress soaked with iodine and him watching her carefully.

"God, who hurt you?" she asked, frowning at the sight of the deep cut on his collarbone.

"Who cares?" he shrugged. "I killed him."

She tried to stay emotionless, but his casual tone shocked her as much as his confession.

"It's better if you don't know," he added in an undertone.

He sounded concerned now, as if ignoring who he had killed protected her. As she leaned forward, his eyes roamed over her, going from her face to her breasts. She blushed again and something changed in him; she expected him to avert his gaze but he seemed to stare at her with even more boldness. _And what else? Is it lust?_ She felt the urge to regain her composure and she turned around abruptly, pretending she needed another compress. _It's the last one: I'm so unlucky._ She shook like a leaf as she opened again the bottle of iodine and soaked the fabric with the orange-colored liquid.

"No more questions, Little Bird," he rasped, threatening.

Sansa jumped and she would have stepped back if possible when she spun on her heels, but she was in a corner of the bathroom and the washstand prevented her to move aside: he was standing up, towering above her, and she suddenly realized what his victim had felt when facing him. _Complete and utter confusion, terror... he didn't leave any chance to this man._ The Hound's challenging gaze urged her to finish her task; she tried to calm down and lifted her hand to clean the cut on his chest.

"You look like a nurse," he commented, his long fingers tugging the hem of her apron.

_A strange nurse, then. Minutes ago I was staring at him as if I had lost my sense of propriety and now he frightens me so much I can't focus on his wound._

"Did you get wounded during your time in Europe?" she asked, trying to ignore his concupiscent look.

"That chirping, again," he sighed. "I wondered when the Little Bird would start talking and asking questions as if she gave a shit about what I went through as a soldier."

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't care," she retorted, frowning. "You're free not to answer, if you don't want to... It's over."

Sansa didn't know if she felt relieved or frustrated; questions tumbled out in her head. Now that his cuts were clean, she ignored what she was supposed to do and what he wanted.

"Anyway... You should see a doctor. I think you need some stitches."

He shook his head with a stubborn expression on his face but didn't move.

"Why did you come here?" she tried again, taking his big hand in hers and examining a cut on his forearm.

He shuddered under her touch but the usual casualness came back instantly.

"Had nowhere else to go."

"You can stay here until dawn, then sneak out," she suggested. "It's up to you."

"You should be more careful with me, girl. If you're that fucking Red Riding Hood, then I'm the wolf."

"You could be the hunter."

He snorted. "In the end, the wolf swallows the little girl and there's no fucking moral. The hunter was invented because modern kids are wimps, that's all."

"The whole story is an invention," she protested.

As he stood in her way, she had only two choices: look at him straight in the eyes and blush or stare at his bare chest and blush again. She sighed deeply, averting her gaze.

"Maybe it's an invention, but it warns foolish little girls they should always stay on the path," he growled.

He stepped back, still staring at her and she hastily put away the bottle of iodine in the closet; then, she walked to the bathroom door, opened it and turned off the light. Sansa gasped when she felt his hands on her upper arms: the Hound forced her to face him, pinned her against the wall and ran his cracked lips on her face. He slammed the door, so that the street lamp outside was the only source of light.

His breath, thick with alcohol, washed over her as he pressed his body against her and claimed her lips. Sansa was too terrified to move: she felt his mouth on hers, cruel and possessive. He nibbled at her lips, eliciting tiny gasps that seemed to encourage him even more and his tongue brushed her lips with a renewed eagerness, until she yielded and opened her mouth to him. As his big hands clasped her hips, he began to flick his tongue against hers. _'In the end the wolf swallows the little girl'_. That was precisely what she felt.

There was no tenderness in his kiss, only the sudden impulse of a man whose drunkenness unleashed a desire he had kept secret for a long time. Waiting had made him ravenous; he didn't let go of her and lifted her in his arms to have a better access to her mouth and to hold her tightly. He went on, exploring her mouth and stealing her breath. In the meantime, she put both her hands on his chest, gently at first, then firmly, to show she wanted him to stop.

He paused, his ragged breathing tickling her neck as he had dropped his head. His arms still circled her waist and held her. They stayed like that for a while, him catching his breath and her wondering if what had happened was for real. In the end, he put her down, and Sansa had to hold herself to the door knob not to collapse on the floor.

On wobbling knees, she left the bathroom, the Hound on her heels. He didn't talk, didn't apology nor tried to explain himself: he simply looked at her, chest heaving. For a second, she believed he was going to run away and she wished he decided to stay, convinced they could discuss about their kiss later, but his sullen expression didn't leave her much hope. The dim light the bedside lamp provided left most of his upper body and face in the shadow; as he stood in front of her, she hesitated then gestured to the bathroom.

"Well, I need to change clothes and to ready myself. I won't be long."

She sounded so pathetic she almost laughed at herself; she heard the mattress squeak under his weight, then the Hound gave out a coarse laugh when she locked herself in the bathroom. All the anger and frustration she had felt after his first visit came back, as she took off her dress, repressing her tears. Except that now he had kissed her, and everything looked worse. _He's rude and getting ruder when he's drunk. He takes advantage of the situation and I can't even send him away because he would have more troubles. And if he's in trouble, I can't escape..._

Sansa wiped her tears, washed her face and contemplated her reflection in the mirror. Nothing in her outward appearance had changed yet she knew everything could be different after that night. She checked her long braid, her night-gown and dressing gown, making sure she was decent, breathed deeply and unlocked the door. Before leaving the bathroom, she looked at the heap of clothes on the floor; his crumpled shirt and her white dress on top of it. On an impulse, she picked his shirt and waistcoat before opening the door.

The Hound was sitting on the bed, his bare feet looking extraordinary big on the bedspread, his scarred chest offered to her gaze. His sardonic smile infuriated her.

"This is a fine bed you have, Little Bird. Way too big for a lonely bird, but I like it."

_Does he forget what that bed means for me? This bed is a part of Baelish's plan for me, and he should remember it!_ Unaware of the irritation his tactless remark aroused, he squared his shoulders and crossed his arms about his chest, observing her as she walked to him – he had chosen the side that was closer to the door.

"I brought back your clothes," she said coldly. "Why did you choose that side, by the way?"

He shrugged, looking around. "I'm supposed to protect you. I'm a man, I sleep by the door."

_Protect me? You scared me to death, you stole a kiss from me..._ Sansa carelessly dropped the heap of clothes on the rug and walked around the bed to reach her side. _Since he didn't even let me choose..._ She sat on the edge of the bed, feeling in every fiber of her body that he stared at her. She didn't remove her dressing gown and quickly slipped under the blankets, rolling on one side, so that she had her back to him.

"Are you angry, Little Bird? Maybe it's not so bad. Anger will give you courage. Anger is a fuel."

"Would you mind turning off the light?" she asked him, a hint of arrogance lingering on her voice.

Instead of obeying her, he shifted, rolled on one side too and she felt his hands close to her back. _For God's sake, what is he doing?_ A light tug at the back of her head gave her the clue: he was touching her braid, stroking her long hair.

"What are you doing?" she dared ask.

"Nothing wrong," he whispered.

He was untying the coral pink ribbon at the end of her braid – she saw him while glancing around her shoulder – then he ran his fingers through her auburn hair. At some point, she heard him sniff and she guessed he was smelling her locks. Sansa felt the situation so disturbing, she decided any conversation was better than this uncomfortable silence.

"One of the women working here offered me her help," she said.

He sighed deeply and she understood at once she had broken the spell.

"Never trust whores, Little Bird," he rasped.

"She's not a prostitute, she's the cook. Her name is Rose."

With that, she rolled on the other side and faced him; her hair seemed tangled in places, she certainly looked disheveled and the ribbon was gone. As the bedside lamp was behind his massive form, she couldn't see much of him.

"What did you say to that woman?" he asked.

"Nothing. I didn't tell her I wanted to go. I don't know yet if I can trust her. I suppose I could."

He remained silent for a while, rubbed his forehead and finally looked back at her.

"Send her to the Red Mansion. Tell her to find me," he suggested, yawning. "I'll ask her a few questions and I'll tell you if she's... you know..."

"Trustworthy?"

He nodded before extending his long arm to turn off the light. 

* * *

_Warmth._ As Sansa's mind drifted between sleep and consciousness, that sensation prevailed over anything else: she was warm, safe and felt well. Her eyes fluttered in the darkness of the bedroom and she realized it was very early in the morning, long before dawn. Then she gasped when she found the Hound's arm around her waist and she realized that the pleasant and comforting warmth behind her back was his. He must have felt something for he shifted and promptly removed his hand from the hollow of her waist. He nevertheless stayed behind her.

"Are you awake?" she asked. "Do you want to talk about last night? About that person you hurt?"

Silence stretched between them and she bit her lip, understanding her mistake.

"Don't feel like it," he whispered in her ear.

His flat refusal could have disheartened Sansa but the way he had uttered these words sent shivers down her spine. _I'm certainly losing my mind_ , she told herself, thinking of what she wanted to ask him.

"Hold me tight, then."

He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close.

"It's alright, Little Bird," he said in an undertone. "It's alright."

_How can this man threaten me and be so kind only hours after?_ She leaned back against his chest, trying to avoid the painful spot on his collarbone. His hand rested under her breasts and she wondered if he felt her heart pounding wildly. A question burned her lips; Sansa fought against it but the notion that he was about to leave decided her to ask it anyway.

"Are you going to kiss me again?"

The Hound removed his hand abruptly as if Sansa's ribcage was burning hot.

"Again?" he spat incredulously. "What's that fucking tale, girl? I never kissed you!"

"Of course, you did. Last night, in the bathroom..."

She rolled on the other side, but only to see him sit up and bend over to pick his shirt.

"You must be mistaking me with someone else," he growled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "That damn Russian customer, for example. Or one of these men who turn around you."

"But I remember-"

When he spun on his heels to face her, despite the darkness, his tone conveyed so much anger she recoiled instantly.

"You think the likes of me stop at kisses? You think I would have kissed you and simply let you go because you're a lady?"

Holding one of the columns of the bed, he leaned forward.

"Do you remember the reek of alcohol on my tongue? Do you remember your swollen lips? No? That kiss never happened, girl, that's all."

As he squatted to put on his shoes, she crawled on the mattress and turned on the bedside lamp. His nervous gestures while lacing his shoes made his muscles ripple on his back and she helplessly observed him, ignoring how to calm things down. He stood up and walked to the console table to take his overcoat.

"Look, I'm sorry," she whispered.

"No, please don't be. Ask your bloody Russian, ask Sweet Sister next time you want kisses," he sneered at her. "I don't kiss anyone."

The Hound crossed the room silently then disappeared in the bathroom. Speechless, she heard him open the French window and she began to cry.

* * *

How long did she stay curled under the blankets, sobbing, Sansa couldn't tell. She saw the last beams of the moon, then the pink light of dawn and finally the cold brightness of the end of November. Snow could fall any day now and remind her of the winters in Saint-Paul, but she didn't care. She didn't understand what she was going through, didn't get why she was so desperate that she had almost forgotten the shock and utter disgust she had felt the night before, during the show.

The Hound's visit had disturbed her in such a way she hardly remembered why she had been so angry at Viola. Her offended reaction at the show seemed futile now: yes, she lived in a brothel and she didn't fit in that shady world. However, the Hound could hurt her in ways she ignored, simply by denying what had happened. _But did it really happen? Did I dream that kiss?_ She stopped crying, wondering who was a liar – or a fool.

Sansa touched her lips, trying to recall the sensation of his mouth on hers, the burnt side, awfully smooth in appearance where it had healed and the thin, cracked lips. She couldn't remember. ' _Do you remember the reek of alcohol on my tongue?'_ he had asked her, contemptuously. Intense reflection suddenly animated her face as a deep frown appear on her forehead. One couldn't forget such a detail, yet his bad breath had left no trace in her memory. _Did I fancy all this?_

She abruptly got up, wishing to find proofs that his visit was not a fiction created by her troubled mind. Walking to the bathroom as the morning cast a pale light through the curtains, she opened the door and saw the bin, half-filled with yellow-orange compresses, her white dress, discarded on the floor with her underwear. Sansa picked up the dress and watched it closely; as she remembered, there was a reddish stain on the skirt, where he had touched her. _At least that was for real._

Like the spatter on the tiles, when he had washed his face. Like the towels where his cuts had left bloody marks. Like the stupid costume she had sewn for the show. Little Red Riding Hood's cloak was still hung behind the door, its crimson satin being the only touch of color in the white bathroom. As much as the red cloak standing out against the off-white door drew her attention, she didn't really care about what had happened while she wore the disguise of a fairy tale heroin. The event she wanted to remember had occurred after, just before she left the bathroom.

Her eyes wandered on the wall, next the door, where he had kissed her. _Supposedly kissed me?_ she wondered. She wished to find a trace, a proof, anything that evidenced he had stolen that kiss, but reality disappointed her in a cruel way. Exiting the bathroom, she went back to the four-poster bed and froze when she noticed a bloodstain on the bedside rug. _He stayed there, he waited for me after sneaking in my room._

She slowly raised her gaze to the bed and sighed; the crumpled sheets, the chaos of blankets on his side left little room for imagination. The Hound has spent the night there, rolling over and leaping out of the bed at dawn, like some oversized jack-in-the-box. _Where's the ribbon?_ she asked herself, scanning the mattress and the sheets. Sansa methodically searched the sheets, stripped the bed and looked under the pillows: the pink ribbon she used to tie her braid at night was nowhere to be found. _Could he have possibly taken it?_ The Hound acted like a madman, sometimes, but it made no sense and she rejected that thought, like a pointless theory straight from her rambling mind.

Later, that morning, Rose came to clean Sansa's bedroom and the girl waited for her instead of leaving to help Peitho dress. A half-smile appeared on the old woman's face, as she imagined Sansa had made up her mind and wouldn't reject her offer, but she frowned at the sight of the room in disarray.

"You said I could trust you," Sansa told her. "Can you help me with these?"

She pointed at the stained towels and at her dress. Rose's eyes opened widely and she probably imagined terrible things before the girl could explain herself.

"Someone spent the night here," she offered, contemplating the cook's horrified expression. "It's not my blood."

Sansa suddenly realized she had just repeated the Hound's words when she had asked about the blood on his shirt.

"He was wounded. He's gone now."

"Who?" Rose asked, anxiety distorting her face.

"You said you just wanted to help," Sansa replied a bit stiffly. "Can you fix all this? Can you help me move the bed so that the bloodstain on the rug won't be visible?"

The cook nodded, still staring at the white heap with brown-red traces, the towels and the white dress formed at the bedside. As they moved the bed to conceal the blood on the carpet, Sansa pondered on that kiss she remembered despite the Hound's protestations. Maybe she was wrong, maybe it had never happened, but with time, she would know which one of them had lied. She had to accept that the proof wasn't somewhere in her bedroom, waiting to be found. The evidence that he had kissed her – or not – would be obvious and unquestionable the day his lips would met hers. _Again. Or for the first time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you still believe 'Little Red Riding Hood' is only for children, you should probably have a look on Wikipedia and read the article about fairy tales...


	7. Crossing the Red Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I won't wear that dress, you know," Sansa told Baelish. "I don't want you to waste your money, nor your time. I don't want anything from you. I'm not a kept woman."  
> Her nerve disturbed him; she could see it in his gaze.  
> "I know you like that dress. Consider it's a fair remuneration after the efforts you made."  
> His eyes roamed over her until she felt again the acid taste of bile at the back of her throat. She folded her arms, trying to meet his gaze.  
> "Maybe I'll accept your present if you answer my questions."  
> His gray-green eyes glistened with curiosity and he licked his lips.  
> "It depends on the questions you want to ask, dear. I'd say one present for each question. I feel like spoiling you, today."  
> "My parents' death: accident or murder?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No special warning except for foul language and... Littlefinger's creepiness.

_Anger is a fuel._ When the Hound had said it, Sansa believed he was so drunk he babbled incoherently and she had not paid attention. However, as hours went by, she began to think that his advice was far from being pointless. She certainly needed to gather her courage, now that Baelish's house got back to the daily routine. Customers would ask for a dance in her bedroom and she would have to face Viola's enmity. Sansa dreaded all this – the customers' visits, the arguments with the other girls – even though she knew she couldn't escape it. She couldn't avoid the conversation Baelish wanted to have with her.

All the girls were summoned to the meeting hall to discuss about the show, but that morning, as Sansa was combing her long blond hair, Peitho had casually told her Baelish wanted to talk afterward, in his office. The madam didn't precisely say why he want to see the girl, but Sansa feared the worst. _What if he decides to sell me now? The Hound doesn't seem ready to go._ The events of the night before had convinced Sansa that her so-called savior had more than one iron in fire. _Perhaps he held a grudge against someone and killed that person yesterday; in any case, while fighting in the streets, he was not preparing our escape._ She remembered his disheveled look and the cuts on his face, chest and arms, then she shivered. _What if the cook told Baelish about what she found in my bedroom?_

Sansa sucked in a deep breath and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She was paler than usual and her auburn hair seemed dull. _If girls beam when they're in love, then I'm not in love._ Sansa couldn't tell if the realization made her happy or sad; she sighed and left her room. Girls showed up by small groups in the meeting hall and sat on the armchairs facing the stage. Sansa's impatience grew as her companions lacked punctuality; in the end, she crossed the space between the first row and the stage to join Peitho who waited for the owner of the house.

"So, did it work?" Sansa inquired. "Do you think there were enough customers last night?"

"You finally ask?" the madam commented, smiling. "You see, Petyr is in his office and he will join us any minute now. He'll give the girls gold stars and dunce caps. I wonder what he will say about you."

 _Is she teasing me?_ Sansa smiled back and walked to her seat, vaguely nervous. If she had disappointed Baelish, it would be terrible. If he openly praised her talent, it would be worse; some girls would whisper she was Baelish's favorite and Viola would get back at her. She almost wished he would find her songs and dance routines only average. Without paying attention to the girls sitting next to her, she shook her head in disbelief. Her former self was a stickler, a girl who needed her parents' and her teachers' compliments as much as she needed air. Now she came to think that 'fair only' was better than 'excellent'. What kind of upheaval had produced such a big change in her?

The girls went silent; she cocked her head to the side and saw Baelish coming in, then gesturing at Viola who seemingly wanted to talk to him. He had the infuriated look of someone who says _'No, not now'_. _Baelish. Viola. The brothel. This is what happened to me_ , she thought, fluttering her eyes shut in exasperation. She felt her fingers curl into balled fists and remembered the Hound's words about anger. _Hope he's right._

With his slicked-back hair, his pinstripe three-piece suit and his patent leather shoes, Baelish seemed to pose as a successful bootlegger. _But he's just Cersei's minion._ He grinned, sweeping the audience, and he cleared his throat.

"Good afternoon, ladies. Last night was a long night and I hope you enjoyed yourselves because..."

He paused, observing their reaction. Sansa's heart began to beat wildly in her chest. If the show was a failure and he decided he had lost enough money, she would have more customers in her bedroom and more chances to meet again Trant – or the likes of him. If Baelish was satisfied, there would be more shows and it meant more occasions to witness the shocking scenes she had seen the night before. _Like the girl kneeling in front of a man._

"Are you quite well?" Edna whispered to her ear, touching her wrist.

Sansa nodded evasively.

"Ladies, I really hope you enjoyed yourselves because we have another show next week!" Baelish announced.

Most of the girls began to shout in excitement and to laugh, some standing up and jumping up and down. Sansa stayed still, looking into the void, trying to decide if it was good news or not. When she finally raised her gaze, she found Baelish's eyes on her; he seemed puzzled. _I should be happy, I guess. But I'm not. I'll be happy the day I leave this place. With the Hound._ Her lack of enthusiasm seemingly disturbed Baelish; the man remained silent, staring at her, while the girls finally stopped laughing and sat down. Some of them noticed how he was looking at Sansa and she didn't need to glance around her shoulder to know that Viola glared at her. In the end, Peitho walked to her lover and lightly touched his arm with a motherly smile, as if she wanted to wake him up. Baelish immediately regained his composure and put his hands behind his back – a gesture meant to help him square his shoulders and to make him look taller.

"To make a long story short, ladies, we ran out of beer and whiskey, latecomers didn't find seats and... we made more money yesterday night than any other night since I bought that place!"

The girls erupted into cheers; a quick glance on the last row confirmed Sansa's guess about Viola. The dark-haired girl was not pleased at all, because she had been protesting against the show all along. The fact that she had been a part of it – playing the part of a lightly dressed, wanton Snow-White – didn't change anything to the resentment she felt.

"But..." Baelish added, "there are things I'm really proud of and things I don't want to see anymore. As you all know, I was among the customers. I saw everything. I'll be watching next time and I want improvements. Not efforts, improvements."

Next to Sansa, Edna sighed deeply, wondering if their boss would congratulate her or disapprove of her work. Most of the girls looked at each other and whispered until Baelish shushed them with a glare.

"Jo and Mary, the refreshment area. Good job, but people waited for their drinks during the intermission. We have to solve this problem."

"I'm sorry," Jo protested, "but we were only two girls and there were more customers than what we expected. As you said, we ran out of beer-"

"Enough," he cut her off. "We'll find someone else to help you during the intermission next time, but Mary has to move her pretty ass faster! Edna, you did quite a good job in the wings."

Sansa's neighbor nodded politely, smiling at the compliment. Baelish went on, naming girls and praising their attitude or reproaching them some minor shortcomings. _Will he say something about Viola's behavior during my song, when she spoiled everything by laughing out loud?_ He hardly mentioned Viola, and Sansa wondered on his silence. _Baelish never misses anything. If I saw that she did it on purpose, he noticed it as well, so why does he shut his eyes to her bad manners?_

"I'm sure he'll say you were perfect," Edna encouraged her, nudging at Sansa.

"A bit shy, as usual," Meg approved, leaning forward so that Sansa could hear her, "but you sang very well."

She smiled at them gratefully; Baelish's review ended without him talking about Sansa. As the girls had all received personal compliments or reproaches, they stayed focused on his comments about them, and even Edna and Meg seemed to forget Baelish's confusing silence concerning the girl who sang three songs, danced and appeared in the last tableau. Baelish smoothed down his dark mustache and told the girls they may leave. Sansa repressed a sigh and pushed herself from her seat, watching with envy the cluster of women who excitedly discussed about next show.

"Sansa," Baelish called. "My office. Now."

He had uttered these words loudly enough and many girls turned to see her reaction. Some of them looked at Sansa scornfully: Viola's unconcealed pleasure brought color to her olive complexion, as she observed the girl retreating from the meeting hall. Eyes downcast, Sansa followed Baelish, then thanked him when he opened the door of his office and moved aside so that she could come in first.

Baelish's ostentatious office had not changed since her last visit; the furniture and the decor still clarioned their owner's social success. _Anger is a fuel._ If the rumor saying that Baelish's parents belonged to the low middle-class was true, their son had certainly striven to reach his goal and to find his place under the sun. _Am I angry enough to do whatever it takes to leave this house? Do I have enough guts to rebel against him?_

The jaded look she gave to the mahogany desk, the oriental rug or the green fainting couch didn't solve her problem: Baelish was about to tell her how furious he was, because she had behaved as if she still lived in Saint-Paul and sang in front of her family's friends. _I don't belong here, that's a fact. Did I make efforts to fit in with the crowd yesterday night? I would be a liar if I said I did. He knows it._

She wondered what he would do to her as she had disappointed him so much. Nobody had ever told her he was violent, but a man who ruled a brothel full of rebellious girls like Viola had to impose his rules and she was pretty sure he knew exactly what to do to make them obey.

He walked to his desk, his footsteps echoing in the large, pretentious room; Sansa knew he took his time, that he almost encircled her like an animal observing its prey before pouncing on it. She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, repressing a shudder. In the end, after an agonizing wait for her, he sat down behind his desk and watched her. It was more than time to tell the girl she could have a seat, in Sansa's standards, but he seemed to refuse that simple gesture of politeness; she wondered if it was the revenge of a man born in a middle-class family against a girl who was her father's little princess, then rejected that idea. Baelish was mad at her, because she didn't obey when she was told to charm customers and it was enough to make him forget the elementary rules of courtesy. He rooted his elbows in the polished surface of the desk, leaned forward and bored his eyes into hers.

"What do you want?"

His question was simple, yet it unsettled the girl. _A conversation with the Hound_ , was the first answer she framed for herself, in the depths of her mind. _No. Go back home_ , she suddenly thought. Baelish didn't expect these answers, though. Sansa speculated it could be a trick and remained silent, her blue eyes only conveying her interrogations.

"Come on, Sansa, I'm sure a girl of eighteen dreams of many... items. Clothes, jewels... Tell me now, what do you want?"

She shook her head shyly at first, then with more confidence as his eyes widened in surprise.

"Why would you like to give me some present?" she asked in disbelief.

"All this – the show, the rehearsals, the costumes... – was meant for you. Do you remember how Peitho begged me to let her organize the show?"

Unfortunately, she remembered quite well the way Peitho had taken advantage of his attraction to her.

"I was reluctant, I confess it now. I thought you were talented enough, but a bit too... artistic for my customers. Do you know what happened last night?"

She politely shook her head, still nervous about the outcome of their conversation.

"I was sitting next to an influential congressman. He told me he had come because he has... an interest in Lois and Lois begged him to watch her dance. Never mind... he came for Lois and he stayed for you. This man – and many others – told me how beautiful and gifted you were. They all want to see you again. You'll meet them, one by one, and you'll dance for them. You're fully booked for days, girl. That's what I want to thank you for."

Averting her eyes, Sansa swallowed hard and watched her fingers intertwined in front of her. _Booked for days? When will the Hound come back, if I have to dance for a different man every night? When will we prepare our flight, assuming he still wants to help me?_

"So, tell me," Baelish insisted, "what do you want?"

She remained silent, as he stood up and walked to her. When he planted himself in front of her, she avoided his gaze and a deep sigh escaping his lips betrayed his frustration. He cupped her chin, giving her the opportunity to examine his hand with slender fingers and filed nails – _a woman's hand_ , she mused. Understanding she couldn't do otherwise, she held his gaze.

"So you're not mad at me?" she asked.

He shook his head, smiling at her confusion. Sansa found there was some smugness in this broad grin, something revealing he enjoyed these tiny proofs that he intimidated other people – like a man who remembers the bullied child he once was.

"Saying that I'm not mad at you is an understatement," he replied, straightening his back in front of a girl who was a bit taller than him.

"I want a one-way ticket to Saint-Paul. I want to go home."

Baelish almost flinched at her response; his eyes narrowed slightly and she realized that even if he was about to turn her request down flat, his determination could waver someday.

"No, Sansa, no. You're a sensible girl, you know it's impossible."

As her pleading eyes insisted, undermining his resolution, he rolled his eyes and felt the urge to explain himself.

"Do you know what Joffrey intended to do with you, once he decided your presence was not necessary anymore? Do you have the slightest idea of where you would have ended up? And how? I won't tell you because you would have nightmares for the rest of your life... and you would perhaps not believe me... I moved heaven and earth to convince him that you would be better here, because I would keep an eye on you and make sure you're not getting yourself into hot water. I saved your life. That's what I did."

During his tirade, his fingertips began to brush her jaw line, slowly going further and exploring her cheek; he probably felt her tense under his touch, for he stopped and removed his hand.

"Sit down, now," he said in an undertone, shoving his hand in his pocket and casually leaning against the edge of his desk. "If you try to escape and head to Minnesota, you'll never make it. You'll be dead before reaching Westchester County. That's why you can't leave this house: New York is a dangerous city for a girl like you and I can't protect you outside."

"You can't protect me inside," she snapped back. "What happened with Meryn Trant-"

"What happened with Meryn Trant was a regrettable incident. But you're safe now."

His nerve when he kept saying she was safe infuriated her so much she felt tears pooling at the corner of her eyes. The man standing in front of her pretended not to notice and shifted from foot to foot.

"Let's forget what happened with this numbskull and let's focus on serious matters, Sansa. What do you want?"

"I already told you."

"Supposing you reach Saint-Paul, they'll hunt you down and they'll kill you. Killing a girl in New York City or in Minnesota doesn't make a difference for them. This is the only place where you can be safe."

He tilted his head, once he noticed she was staring at the candlestick phone on his desk and lifted his palms in an interrogative gesture.

"A phone call to Robb, then," she said. "To make sure at least one of us is alright."

He chuckled nervously. "Your brother is fine as long as he stays in his hole and doesn't move nor tries to reach you. You know they keep him under surveillance, don't you? A phone call from my office here in New York and I'm a dead man as well."

She glared at him. His gray-green gaze was the ugliest thing she had seen in a while. He didn't flinch despite the hatred and contempt her eyes expressed and he stiffened a little bit, clenching his jaw.

"After what I did for you, I expected more gratitude, dear. Never mind. I'm sure a visit to the best jewelers and dress designers will make you sober up. Put on a pretty dress and go fetch your coat." With that, he gestured to the door and she slowly stood up, still staring at him. "I'll meet you in the entrance hall," he added. "Be quick about it."

Sansa left the office, jutting out her chin and keeping her back straight. Images churned in her head: Robb, alone in Saint-Paul, ignoring where she was and even if she was alive; her future in the brothel if the Hound didn't help her escape. Her thoughts went back to Evie: she could end up like the red-haired girl, secluded under the roof, if she disobeyed. Understanding she was about to cry with rage, she stopped mid-stride in the staircase and tried to compose herself: tears and submission were what Baelish expected from her and even if she felt helpless, she still could deny him this pleasure.

She sighed deeply and went on; in her bedroom, she opened the closet and selected a blue afternoon dress with embroidery. Reaching behind her neck, Sansa undid her dress and let it pool at her feet before stepping forward; as she slipped on the blue dress, her eyes wandered inside the open closet until they found the black woolen fabric she was thinking of. For the first time in weeks, she took the coat Catelyn had chosen herself only days before her death. Sansa had it dyed for her parents' funeral. Since she couldn't leave the Red Mansion, and now Baelish's house, she hadn't wore it ever since. Burying her nose in the collar, she cringed at the acrid smell of dye, before putting it on, then she turned to the cheval mirror. She looked bad and the knee-long black coat didn't make her thin figure less somber. Shrugging, she put on her hat, walked to the door and opened it, then almost stepped back when she saw Viola among a bunch of girls who stood on the landing, obviously curious about what had happened in Baelish's office.

"Are you packing?" the dark-haired girl asked, puffing herself up.

"I- I don't think so."

Viola laughed, then crossed her arms about her chest in a pointless gesture to bring out her big breasts.

"She doesn't know!" she exclaimed, give a look at her companions. "Can you believe that? So what happened, sweet heart, why did Baelish want to see you? Did he ask you to suck his dick? I bet you couldn't."

The girls began to laugh and as they were in Sansa's way to the flight of stairs, she couldn't simply walk away. At some point, Sansa felt so distraught she thought of going back to her room and throwing herself on the bed to cry, but on an impulse she met Viola's eyes.

"You'd like to know what happened in his office, right?" she asked the dark-haired girl. "I'm not going to tell you. If you will excuse me now, Mr. Baelish is waiting for me."

Ignoring the girls' confusion and their puzzled looks, she reached the staircase and hurried downstairs. Baelish was in the entrance hall, his coat on; he hold his fedora in both hands.

"Is there a problem with the girls?" he inquired. "I heard them...You shouldn't pay much attention to them, Sansa."

"I know. That's what I did."

Perhaps his advice could have cleared the air, if Sansa's anger against him and against the new life he had offered her like a magnanimous present was not as strong. He led her outside and she felt strange when she crossed the threshold, as the sunbeams caressed her cheek, making the cold wind of the end of November less stinging. Walking on the sidewalk in front of the house, even if it was rather filthy, meant the world to her and she couldn't help smiling. _I could walk through the city and, even with my high-heels shoes on, I would leave Baelish behind._ His voice dampened her spirits.

"We're not going for a walk, dear. We'll take the Packard and my chauffeur will drop us off."

She reluctantly turned around and saw the Twin Six limo with the chauffeur waiting outside, blowing on his cold hands. Sansa walked to the black car, greeted the chauffeur and got in with a sigh. Inside, despite the comfortable seats and the rather large passenger compartment, she felt hemmed in by Baelish's presence. Putting as much space between herself and Baelish as possible, she leaned against the car door and turned to watch the city through the thick glass of the car window. The engine roared as the chauffeur started the car and they quickly left the street where Baelish's house was located to reach the nice parts of town.

Melancholy washed over her at the sight of the large streets surrounded by high buildings; in the early afternoon, people came and went on the sidewalks, some hurrying to their office, others walking around and chatting. Suddenly, she gaped when the chauffeur turned right in a broad street, and she recognized their destination.

 _Fifth Avenue. The central scene of_ The Age of Innocence _. Edith Wharton couldn't choose another place to introduce Newland Archer and Countess Ellen Olenska._ She had fancied that street more than any other one, when she still lived in Saint-Paul. Edith Wharton had published The Age of Innocence and won the Pulitzer the last year Sansa had spent in her parents' manor of Winterfell: she remembered her excitement every time she grabbed the book she kept on her bedside table and opened it to read Newland Archer's trials and tribulations. At that time, Sansa thought New York City and Fifth Avenue were the most beautiful places on earth, making every tiny event brighter because it had happened there. _I refused to listen to the message though it was pretty clear: it was a warning about this town. No matter how enchanting this place is, it shatters hopes and illusions. I should have listened what the author was telling me, but instead of paying attention, I begged Father and we moved to New York._

The chauffeur, a tall man whose cap and gray overcoat were all she could see of him through the glass window between the passenger compartment and the driver's, pulled over suddenly and Baelish got out of the sedan to walk around and to open the car door for Sansa. On her right, she recognized the glitzy shop sign of a couturier.

"Come," Baelish told her, offering his arm.

She deliberately ignored his gesture, forcing him to let his arm fall on his side, but not before a few seconds of hesitation.

"I've got plenty of dresses in my closet," she stated.

"You certainly don't have dresses like these."

"I'm afraid you're wasting your money."

Her jaded remarks were not enough to question Baelish's plan and, once more, his obstinacy commanded respect. _Still, he's wasting his money on me._

Once in the shop, an army of saleswomen surrounded them, helping her remove her coat, inquiring about Mr. Baelish's health and hardly frowning when they noticed Sansa's lack of enthusiasm.

"How can I help you, Miss?" the shop manager, a jovial woman in her forties, asked, clasping her hands.

"I'm afraid you can't unless you sell train tickets," Sansa replied, casting a chill.

The saleswomen looked at each other, wondering if it was some kind of cold humor or if the girl who accompanied Mr. Baelish was mad.

"We'd like to see evening dresses," Baelish said a bit stiffly. "Something to enhance my young friend's beauty."

The shop manager instantly regained her composure and led them in one of the private rooms, dedicated to her wealthiest customers. Baelish and Sansa sat down in comfortable armchairs while the woman gave her orders.

"I don't want anything from you," Sansa whispered, enjoying his unease.

Several large mirrors placed around the room reflected his frustration – and her triumph. Refusing Baelish's present gave her an intense satisfaction, though she was not used to make scenes in elegant shops – nor anywhere else. Suddenly they had switched roles and even if she had had to follow his lead when he had taken her to this shop, she felt stronger than ever when he looked at her with pleading eyes.

"You know any girl in my house would kill to have one of these dresses in her closet? Where's the sweet girl who loved to go shopping?" he asked.

"I'm not any girl. And the person you're talking about died in my parents' car accident. Assuming it was an accident."

Baelish scooted to the edge of his seat and took her hand in his before she could withdraw it.

"Right now, I'm the only one standing between you and the Lannisters, so you'd better cooperate with me."

 _You're not standing between me and the Lannisters. The Hound is._ Baelish's eyes glistened with a cold rage.

"Don't cross the red line, Sansa."

The shop manager came back, followed by one of the saleswomen; the girl, a bit shorter than Sansa, wore a green evening dress with fringes.

"This is one of our new dresses," she announced, addressing Sansa. "Would you like to try it on?"

The girl found her grin so fawning and despicable, it was almost easy to play the part of a spoiled young woman.

"Frankly, I don't have any opinion on this dress."

An awkward silence filled the room and when the poor saleswoman gave the shop manager a doe-eyed stare, Sansa wished she could take back her words.

"I suppose you have other dresses," Baelish said, sitting back in his armchair.

The woman mumbled something and two other girls came in. Sansa didn't really pay attention as the girls walked around, doing their best to bring out the fine fabric and the perfect finish of the clothes they wore.

"Sansa, please," Baelish commanded in an undertone.

"I already told you what I wanted and you refused to listen."

Her pout infuriated him. She locked eyes with the shop manager, who waited for her verdict, hands clasped in front of her, the woman's fixed grin revealing her growing nervousness.

"These dresses are beautiful and so is your shop," Sansa told her. "But... I don't need a dress."

She turned to her neighbor and gave him an insistent look; unless the woman was blind or stupid she would understand Sansa wasn't making a scene but settling the score against Baelish.

"Fine." Baelish said. "I'll choose for you, then. The red dress."

"Mr. Baelish is an expert in fashion!" the shop manager exclaimed. "A red-coral dress. Open-back, the finest silk you can find..."

All of a sudden, Sansa had a look at the young woman wearing the red dress and spinning around with a stupid smile on her face. _No. He doesn't want me to wear this..._ It was see-through and the open-back made the dress unacceptable. A quick glance at him made her swallow hard. If this afternoon on Fifth Avenue was a game, Baelish certainly intended to win it.

"Put it on," he ordered, narrowing his gaze.

His threatening tone convinced her she couldn't do otherwise; she therefore reluctantly stood up and followed the obsequious woman who showed her a dressing room before closing the door with a knowing smile.

 _God, he knows exactly what he's doing._ Baelish might be the most cunning man she had ever met; he always considered profit and risk before deciding if something was good or bad. The dress: profitable, because it revealed her owner's back and because its vivid color flatter one's complexion. Herself: highly profitable, especially if she wore that dress. Fighting back the angry tears welling up in her eyes, she removed her afternoon dress and slipped on the red one. _I won't yield. I'll be the most temperamental and unpleasant girl who ever lived in this town, but I won't yield_ , she thought, opening the door and getting back in the private salon where Baelish waited for her.

Sansa rolled her eyes when she heard the cheap cliché the shop manager addressed her. She was amazing, she was exquisite, the dress had been made for her. She hardly glanced at her reflection in the mirrors adorning the walls, yet she saw Baelish's face on it and this vision sent shivers down her spine. He slowly pushed himself from the armchair and somehow the shop manager understood it was time for her to retreat. Baelish stopped right behind Sansa and she clearly felt his breath on her shoulder-blades.

"I know you would be beautiful," he said in an undertone. "In my entire life, I never met a more beautiful girl. Except perhaps your mother."

Sansa had once thought that story about her mother and Baelish being friends – and some said even more – was a tale told by envious people. Catelyn was a lady, whereas Baelish was an insignificant young man. And above all, only her father was worthy of Catelyn's love. The notion that the man standing behind her had harbored hopes about her mother was simply disgusting; his caressing tone sickened her. She abruptly turned around and looked down at him.

"I won't wear that dress, you know."

"Why are you telling me you won't wear it?"

"Because I don't want you to waste your money, nor your time. I don't want anything from you. I'm not a kept woman."

Her nerve disturbed him; she could see it in his expression the large mirror reflected.

"I know you like that dress. Consider it's a fair remuneration after the efforts you made."

His eyes roamed over her until she felt again the acid taste of bile at the back of her throat. She folded her arms, trying to meet his gaze.

"Maybe I'll accept your present if you answer my questions."

His gray-green eyes glistened with curiosity and he licked his lips. "It depends on the questions you want to ask, dear. I'd say one present for each question. I feel like spoiling you, today."

"My parents' death: accident or murder?"

"Frankly, Sansa, you already know the answer. I'm a good sport, ask me something else."

"Who killed them? And who killed Robert? Why didn't you say anything about Viola's attempt to ruin my song yesterday night? What is your plan about Evie and her baby?"

He chuckled. Sansa felt giddy now that she had released a part of the interrogations she had bottled up for days and even weeks.

"That's a lot of questions," he commented. "Strange questions, by the way. Let me choose another dress for you and I'll answer to the first two questions inside the car. This is not the right place for confidences."

Ten minutes later, they left the shop. Baelish had selected a flimsy white dress in addition to the red-coral one she had tried on. As he was talking with the shop manager, she had heard two saleswomen wondering about the strange duo they formed.

"He's buying her these dresses to make up for something, it's obvious! I'm sure he cheated on her."

"No way. A man cheats on his wife with a girl like her, but he doesn't cheat on her."

"Why would she be so angry at him, then?"

 _If only they knew the truth._ Once in the passenger's compartment of the limousine, Baelish answered her first question.

"Joffrey," he said steadily. "Joffrey decided your parents had to die. Cersei only wanted to get rid of Eddard, but your her son disagreed. Didn't seem to appreciate his future mother-in-law."

"Did you know?"

"That's another question, Sansa."

"As I suppose they also killed Robert, my second question is pointless now. And you bought me two dresses... so did you know?"

He sighed deeply, tilting his head back and thus betraying his unease.

"Had I knew, I would have saved your mother. I would have found something to convince her not to go with Eddard that day. As you know, I was a friend of hers."

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She did nothing to hide it and shook her head when he offered her his handkerchief.

"But you wouldn't have done anything for my father, right? You didn't care if he got killed!" she exclaimed.

"Unlike many people who surrounded you in the Red Mansion, I don't embellish the truth. No, I wouldn't have done anything for your father. I warned him once, but he didn't listen to my advice."

"I hate you."

"As you wish. You asked me two more questions, so I can drag you to the jeweler's shop, then to the restaurant."

With that, he opened the glass window separating them from the driver's compartment and gave the chauffeur an address. The jeweler's shop was just nearby – the ride didn't allow Sansa to stomach the news nor to collect herself. She was still dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief when the chauffeur pulled over.

"We can stay inside the car until you feel better," he suggested, reaching out to brush her cheek.

She recoiled at once. "I'm fine," she said, her blue eyes conveying the hatred she felt for the man who had done nothing to save her father and who now humiliated her with his costly presents. "Let's get it over with."

Without waiting for him, she opened the car door and got out shaking. _Regain your composure. Think of your father. You're not as strong as he was, but you can do your best to ruin Baelish's afternoon._

The sun was already setting as she stared blankly at the store front. Baelish joined her and offered her his arm again; she glared at him and he didn't insist. Still, his sudden lack of doggedness puzzled her and she feared his reaction once in the shop. As Baelish came in, the salesmen hurried to him with fake smiles plastered to their faces; Sansa stayed in the background, and the men were so eager to welcome their wealthy customer, they didn't pay attention to the girl who had turned around to give a thoughtful look at the darkening street.

"Did your friend enjoy the necklace and the ring?" the oldest salesman asked Baelish. "I suppose she did, or else you wouldn't be back!"

He laughed at his own joke, his co-workers' giggling echoing his until the man realized his mistake. He thought the tall woman with her back to him was Peitho and his widened when Sansa spun on her heels. His confusion took her out of her drowsiness. She slowly walked to Baelish as the salesmen scattered in the shop to find the jewels they wanted to show them. The thick rug muffled their footsteps.

"You come here often?" she inquired. Her jaded look made her question irksome and she saw him repressing a nervous smile.

"It depends on what you call 'often'."

"Oh really? I bet she likes your gifts."

She didn't need to utter his mistress' name to evoke Peitho's intriguing presence. Baelish didn't flinch.

"She's grateful, unlike you," he whispered.

"So why are you wasting your time and your money with me? I told you I'm not a kept woman."

"You'll be what I want you to be, Sansa. You already took the dresses I bought you."

"Because I wanted answers," she protested. "Not because I wanted the dresses."

"It doesn't make any difference, now. Give me your coat."

As Baelish helped her remove her coat, she felt his hot gaze on her and her nervousness increased. It was different from Meryn Trant's lustful look, yet it was disturbing. He wouldn't hurt her that day, but his intentions were possibly just as bad. She stepped aside and sighed deeply. The same little game they had played earlier started again: her feigned boredom infuriated him and cast a chill in the luxurious shop. He insisted on buying her a sapphire necklace and earrings. _Like these sets of jewels Peitho stores in her dressing table._ The idea that Peitho was not the only woman whom he offered jewels disconcerted her but she buried the thought away.

"That's one more question," she commented with a hint of mischief as Baelish held out the earrings.

The salesman frowned, ignoring what she was talking about. Baelish contemplated her, cocking his head to the side, to admire the sapphire's brilliance standing out against her creamy skin.

"I thought you were not a kept woman," he commented, eying her greedily. "Your stubbornness is both unnerving and beguiling."

"I'll give you some time, if you want," the salesman offered.

"That won't be necessary," Baelish answered, still looking at her. "We'll take the necklace and the earrings."

He stood up abruptly, as if the afternoon purchases now annoyed him. Sansa averted her eyes, always feigning indifference but she felt his stare, expressing his eagerness to be alone with her as soon as possible. Sensing his impatience, the salesmen hurried themselves and Baelish let out a deep sigh when he closed the car door behind him.

Sitting back across Sansa, he observed the girl until she decided to break the awkward silence.

"That's three questions, including the restaurant," she announced. "What do you intend to do about Evie and her child?"

"Why are you so friendly with her?"

"Because she is a kind person. You promised me an answer," she reminded him.

He smoothed down his mustache in a casual gesture and leaned forward.

"It's a good deed."

She rolled her eyes.

"All right, it's not because I want to make amends. I don't make amends. You see, a pregnant whore is useless, until you find some desperate couple who wants a baby."

 _He's not serious!_ Her senses dull, she tried to realize what he had just said. Evie, already fearing for her baby's future, ignoring he or she would be taken away from her...

"Why?" she managed to ask.

"The girl found out she was pregnant a bit late and suddenly, I understood it would be profitable to let her stay in the house until childbirth, instead of sending her away."

Sansa wanted to tell him what kind of monster he was; she didn't find the right words though. The cold, scheming man who was sitting across her in the confined space of the limousine only deserved her contempt. He saw her reaction and kept on staring at her.

"You asked why I wanted to give her baby to a loving family, so you have only one more question, including the restaurant," he said, as the car slowed down.

"I'm not interested in your game anymore," she replied.

The restaurant was an elegant place where Baelish was a regular customer. She didn't ask if he often came here with Peitho, and sat down silently across him. Sansa was polite with the waiters, even if she didn't have a look at the menu and didn't answer Baelish's questions.

"Are you going to sulk in a corner for the rest of the day?" he asked her.

"I don't sulk. I talk to the waiters. I only don't want to talk to you."

Instead of shouting or threatening, he looked at her with more insistence. Her determination seemingly fascinated him and Sansa wondered if her decision not to yield was right. _It's as if the situation irritates him and pleases him at the same time. Does he like people who resist him? Does he like women who resist him?_ She did not feel strong enough to answer to that question right away and focused on her surroundings. Unbeknownst to her, she probably seduced him and that stupid game could have tremendous consequences for her, for her relationship with Peitho or with the other paneling and the dark-red wallpaper with its palmette motif were less disturbing than her companion's gaze.

When one of the waiters noticed she didn't touch her food, he came closer and tilted his head, a concerned look on his face.

"Do you want me to bring something else, Miss? Our chef's lamb chops are very tasty..."

"Thank you," she replied with her best smile. "The food is perfect, but something took away my appetite."

The waiter frowned, worrying about her attitude, until Baelish cleared his throat.

"Leave us alone," he briskly told the young man.

Sansa glared at him as he wiped his mouth with a napkin before emptying his glass of water. His dark mustache didn't hide the smug smile on his face. She knew the other customers looked at them, wondering who they were and why the pretty red-haired girl pouted, but she didn't care.

"Ah, Baelish! It's about time."

A baritone voice made her jump and when she raised her gaze, she saw the thick waisted figure of Kevan Lannister. He was wearing a dark three-piece suit and his skin, usually pale had turned red by places with the cold wind. Behind him, Sansa spotted the Hound, whose mere presence had silenced the customers. He dwarfs anyone, she thought, her eyes going from him to Baelish whose light build suddenly seemed ridiculous. The Hound, silent as ever when he escorted a member of the Lannister family, took in her sullen expression and the untouched food in her plate. _I didn't come here of my own free will, he has to understand it._

"Hope I'm not interrupting," Kevan Lannister said, grabbing a chair from another table and sitting next to Baelish, while the Hound stood behind him. "I've been looking for you for hours."

If the Hound's presence reminded her how short Baelish was, Kevan Lannister's intrusion changed the dark-haired man's behavior as well: he became again the Lannister's minion, the man who worked for them and ate their scraps.

"What happened?" Baelish asked, feigning both innocence and anxiousness.

Kevan Lannister pointed at Sansa.

"Can I talk in front of her?"

"Of course, you can. She's with me, she's not going anywhere."

The Hound's eyes narrowed slightly and Sansa swallowed hard.

"It's Meryn Trant," Joffrey's great-uncle explained. "He's missing."

Sansa's heart skipped a beat. _Missing? What does it mean?_

"Nobody saw him since yesterday night and Joffrey's speach is scheduled for tomorrow. I was hoping you got some news from Trant..."

Baelish's astonished look expressed his ignorance better than any answer. Sansa felt Baelish's eyes on her and looked down at her plate. _No. It's nonsense. Things like that only happen in bad novels._

"Is something amiss, with the Stark girl?" Kevan Lannister asked.

"She's upset, that's all," Baelish replied. "She knew Meryn Trant since her stay in the Red Mansion..."

The Hound cracked his knuckles; the two men sitting across her didn't notice it – Kevan Lannister hardly frowned at the annoying sound – but when she locked eyes with the scarred man, she knew. _No, try to think straight. He wouldn't have done this. And even if he had killed Trant, there is another reason, a better reason than you..._

"But who?" Baelish asked.

"I'd say the Irishmen," Kevan Lannister confessed in an undertone. "Not that we had problems with them so far... I mean... their whiskey is good, but they're becoming greedy. They'd like us to pay for their damn war against the British Army. I think it's a kind of warning, Petyr... That's why I needed to inform you. Anyone who did this crossed the red line and we'll make them pay for their presumption!"

She had not eaten nor drank anything in hours, she felt dizzy. Her head spun and she put both her hands on the table not to fall.

"I think I need some fresh air," she says suddenly, pushing herself from her seat.

Baelish stood up but the Hound was quicker.

"I'll take her outside," he rasped, ignoring the shorter man's helpless gesture and holding her upper arms.

Once again, the customers turned to them as they exited the restaurant. The cold air of November made her shiver and he led her to the black limousine parked nearby. She wanted to ask him if he really had murdered Trant and why, but the words were stuck in her throat. As soon as Baelish's chauffeur recognized the Hound he cautiously got back into the driver's compartment.

"No!" the Hound shouted. "Go fetch her coat, she's freezing!"

Too afraid to protest, the chauffeur hurried to the restaurant, leaving them alone. He opened the door for her, then got in. His massive figure filled the passenger's compartment, making her feel small and frail. Her stare irritated him, now that she knew.

"What?" he growled, avoiding her gaze.

"When- When will you come back?"

His expression softened but he glanced around his shoulder to make sure that Baelish and Kevan Lannister were out of reach.

"As soon as I can."

Hugging herself, she watched the chauffeur running to the car, holding her black coat; Baelish and Kevan Lannister were on his heels. The Hound wordlessly opened the car door and got out. Sansa felt like she was floating through a dream: the chauffeur's concerned expression as he gave her the coat, Baelish talking to Kevan Lannister on the sidewalk, next to the car... In the end, Joffrey's great-uncle walked away with the Hound and Baelish sat next to her.

"You seem terrified, dear. Did the Hound threaten you?"

She shook her head as the chauffeur started up the car.

"No need to lie, Sansa. The man is poor company. Still... I can't believe Meryn Trant is missing."

 _Pig dead, Trant missing..._ Among five million New Yorkers, there was only one girl able to make the connection between these two events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know when I'll post next chapter so... Merry Christmas everyone!


	8. In the Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't know why the Hound came to see you, in the first place," Baelish said. "I thought he would find it pointless because he could just watch... I believed he would choose another girl and fuck her like the dog he is. I must say his persistence impresses me. With the price he pays for you, he could have two girls for the whole night."  
> As her face turned crimson, she realized Baelish indulged in provocation to see how she would react. But is it possible? Do men often hire two women at the same time? Is the Hound familiar to these... things? Misunderstanding her confused expression, he laughed again.  
> "Oh Sansa. Don't you worry, he won't come back, most likely. You're way too expensive. He's in the red, now, probably in the hole, going from one pawnbroker to the other."

_It doesn't make any sense_ , she told herself once more.

Tossing and turning in her huge bed, Sansa reenacted the events of that afternoon, days before, when Baelish had taken her to Fifth Avenue. Night after night, she dwelt upon Baelish's revelations and especially on what Kevan Lannister had explained. _Meryn Trant vanished into thin air and he is most likely dead._ No matter how tired she was after the rehearsal – Baelish had demanded her to prepare a rendition of _'The Sheik of Araby'_ , with her singing while five girls would perform a modern version of the dance of the seven veils – or after the visit of a customer who had asked her to dance the Foxtrot for one hour; she simply couldn't fall asleep.

When her body surrendered, overcome with fatigue and only eager to find a well-deserved rest, her mind stubbornly resisted and refused to yield. That anomaly, Sansa couldn't explain it without evoking what the Hound might have done and why he had taken those risks. Every night, despite the tantalizing prospect of slipping between fresh sheets and forgetting about the brothel and its inhabitants, anxiousness, confusion and fear kept her awake. At some point, during the days that followed her fortuitous meeting with Kevan Lannister, she realized that mystery was the first thing that crossed her mind in the morning and her last subject she tried to explore before finally falling into deep sleep. For lack of explanations from the Hound, she began and ended her days thinking of him.

Sighing deeply and kneading her pillow with exasperation, she sat up in her bed and crossed her arms about her chest in a childish and pointless gesture. _Let's take a close look at the most recent facts. Again._ She had been through this before: the frustrating realization that she couldn't sleep, wouldn't sleep before examining once more the meager elements she had: the annoying surrender to her fears and worries were all too familiar. As the cold air made her shiver, she pulled the blankets to her chin and tilted her head back, contemplating the darkness.

_Meryn Trant disappeared the same night the Hound sneaked in my bedroom, drunk and wounded._ That was quite simple and somehow she wished it was a coincidence. The time-line was much more intriguing. After Trant's attempt to rape her, the Hound had been her first customer. _The first to know._ His reaction – or rather his different reactions – to the news had surprised her; anger, then concern and something akin to tenderness in the end. No matter how difficult he had been that night and how his behavior sometimes infuriated her: he had stayed for her, running the risk of being discovered. His cutting remarks, when talking about Peitho's reaction should she find him in Sansa's bedroom, or his taunting were only provocations.

_His wounds showed he had fought, probably with someone who countered his blows and defended himself with a knife._ She remembered Trant carried a knife and often played with it in the Red Mansion, whenever he got bored. Even if the man who had assaulted her was used to tussle, a blade was his only chance against someone who dwarfed any other henchman working for the Lannisters – except the Hound's older brother, who was busy fighting against a group of small-town bootleggers who tried to monopolize moonshine in Tennessee.

_He came to me, saying he had no other place to go._ At night, in her silent bedroom, Sansa admitted it was disturbing, even if she refused to acknowledge it by daylight. Darkness reminded her of her panic when he had pinned her to the wall, then thrown her across the bed. With the lights out, she relived his visit and felt her chest constrict again at the thought of his hands on her. She suddenly closed her eyes, wishing to forget about her confusion. _He had no other place to go, he was wounded and I took care of him. Or I tried to. God knows it's difficult to take care of someone like him. You never know what he's going to do._ He had not protested when she had cleaned his cuts and that, combined with the rest, convinced her there was a link between her aggression, Trant's disappearing act and the gashes on the Hound's body.

When Sansa reached that conclusion, it was easy for her to get herself be dragged and to think about the Hound's motives, assuming he had killed Trant. She pinched the bridge of her nose. _Evie said he cares for me._ Sansa didn't dare think he loved her, even when she indulged in dreaming. Still, it explained everything, from the Hound's refusal whenever she offered to dance for him – he didn't want her to mistake him for a customer – to Trant's murder.

Everything – the way he looked at her, his goings-on to see and touch her back, his fits of anger, his gifts, his poor attempt to resist when she asked him to stay by her side – seemed connected to his feelings for her. Trant's death was no exception. _'I've got things to sort out'_ , he had mumbled before leaving her after the first night he had spent in her bedroom. She had genuinely thought of their escape, then, when he had showed up wounded, she had convinced herself that he had forgotten about his promise to help her and that he was more interested in fighting in back alleys. _I was so selfish, so stupid. A foolish Little Bird, he would say._

What was he doing then, if she admitted he had murdered Trant before hiding in her bedroom? _Shall I say he was avenging me?_ Rolling on one side and lying curled up in a ball, she sighed deeply. If the Hound had decided to kill Trant in order to protect her and to make him pay for the aggression, it almost changed everything in their relationship. Sansa was indebted to him and she didn't know how she could thank him. Nobody had ever done such a thing for her.

When she was a little girl, she had once written a complimentary speech for her parents. She remembered it was their fifteenth wedding anniversary or so; they had gathered their relatives in the understated decor of Winterfell and her father had taken the best bottles of wine he possessed – it was years before the Volstead Act. After the dessert, before the ladies retired to the drawing room, she had planted herself in front of her parents, cleared her throat and recited a few lines. Sansa had forgotten by now most of the speech, still she recalled the last part. _'You are the most important persons in my life and that will never change: you gave life to us. Robb and I could never thank you enough for that.'_

As tears rolled on her cheeks, she wondered if her memory failed or not, if the words she recalled were the same she had uttered, that night, making her father proud and bringing wetness in her mother's eyes. She was their happy little girl with a pink ribbon in her hair at that time, shifting from foot to foot and smiling to the guests. Somehow she missed that little girl who believed her parents would always be there for her and already pictured herself taking care of them once Eddard and Catelyn Stark would be too old to stay in their own house.

The pillow soaked up her tears which only left a sensation of tautness on her skin. She had once thought nobody could do what her parents had done for her, bringing her to this world, raising her, protecting her. Now they were dead, she couldn't thank them anymore – in her nightmares, she often felt guilty for not saying how much she loved them and she woke up crying. There was a man in her life now, ugly, rude, who had every failing, but who had most likely killed her tormentor, thus doing more for her than any other living soul. The complimentary speech she had written under Mrs. Mordane's watchful gaze was a derisory attempt to express her love for her parents. It was tender and Catelyn had loved her daughter's affectionate gesture; still, a speech wouldn't be enough to repay the risks the Hound had taken. _With Trant. And with Pig, before that._

That notion – two men murdered because they had hurt her – kept surprising and baffling her. She didn't ask anything, didn't even say in front of him she wished their death. The first time the Hound had come to see her, he had insisted until she told him why there were bruises and cuts on her back and what had happened. She remembered he had almost shouted at her and threatened her to make her talk. She had loathed his insistence, that night, finding him intrusive and tactless. _But he decided Pig would die even before knowing his name. As soon as he understood I had been hurt, he made up his mind and determined to hunt my tormentor and to kill him._

His fit of anger when she had confessed Trant's attempt to rape her took on its full meaning: it was a foretaste of what he would do to his colleague, because Sansa convinced herself Trant's death had been brutal. A man like the Hound, who had witnessed trench warfare and who knew the exact meaning of 'blood lust', had undoubtedly indulged in violence to punish her assailant. Sansa wouldn't be shocked if Trant's body was someday found with injuries that proved the savagery of the Hound's attack.

All of a sudden, she sucked in a deep breath, imagining the consequences for him should Trant's corpse be discovered. Assuming Kevan Lannister's opinion would be shared by the police, the detectives could suspect a settlement of scores between bootleggers. If they were lucky enough, the police would even ignore the case on the grounds that investigating on a henchman's murder was a waste of time.

As her eyes were now adjusted to darkness, she looked at the spot where he had slept that special night. There was nothing to be seen, as Rose stripped the bed every morning, but she knew his massive body had made the mattress sink under his weight and she knew he had rested his head on that pillow – before tossing it to the floor. Unlike most people, snug beds and soft pillows annoyed him: a habit he had taken during the Great War, or perhaps even before. Sansa didn't notice it at first, but after his last visit, she had slept on her side of the bed, opposite to the door. When she had realized the new habit she had taken, she had blushed deeply – though Meg wasn't there to tell her – and called herself a silly goose. What did it mean, if she suddenly changed her way of doing things because he had told her so? What did it mean if she behaved in his absence as if he was there?

Ashamed, she bit her lip. She had called herself stupid and sappy since that day but it didn't change anything; she slept on her side of the bed, instead of sprawling in the middle of the mattress. Still contemplating the spot where he had spent the night, she felt a lump in her throat when imagining the consequences of an inquiry about Trant's death. _It will be my fault if the police catches him and sends him to jail, because he did it for me... and I can't do anything to avoid his arrest. If only he came here and talked to me._

It was late, probably long after midnight – she could tell by the silence that had fallen on the house – and she admitted with a resigned frustration that she usually fell asleep once she had considered all these elements. Something puzzled her that night, though she couldn't quite put a name on it. Of course, the kiss – or that stupid dream of a kiss she had made, depending on the version she chose – had beclouded their relationship and kept confusing her, but it wasn't the reason why sleep shunned her that night.

_What if I'm completely wrong about what he wants from me? What if I misunderstood every sign he gave me so far? Evie said he cares for me but she could be wrong as well. He wants me but does he love me? He has a man's needs and I live in a brothel; what if he did all this not because he decided to protect me but because he just wants me for himself?_ All of a sudden, the questions that had sprung in her mind made her reconsider her next conversation with the Hound. _Can it be a conversation? Now that he did what he thought useful to get his reward, what will happen next time he comes? Will he decide to wait until we manage to escape or will he take it as soon as he can?_ She shivered, appalled by the idea that her savior can also be another tormentor.

The Hound was not a patient man. _'You think the likes of me stop at kisses?'_ he had spat before leaving her. She let out a deep sigh, wishing all her unease, nervousness and anguish could go with the air exiting her lungs. What he could demand from her scared Sansa and she wished there was someone – anyone – that could help or advise her. She could always go to Evie and ask her what to do in such a case. Closing her eyes, she pictured herself talking to Evie and shook her head.

Then, another image haunted her; it was not an invention of her restless mind, but a memory. She clearly saw the Hound's chest as he was standing in front of her in the bathroom, the night Trant disappeared. Sansa was cleaning some cut when she had asked who had hurt him. It was innocent, perhaps more a way to express her concern for him than a proper question, but it had incensed the Hound. As he stayed there, almost cornering her, his bare chest was all she could see and it was more than enough to make her blush.

His height and the uncommon width of his shoulders were impressive, especially when he stood up. He was muscled, but not like the boxers she had once seen; he didn't train to make his muscles thick and beautiful to watch. Years of tussle, a rather tormented youth and long months spent abroad, fighting for a country and a population he didn't know had simply made his chest muscled and scarred, the marks on his torso strangely echoing to the burns on his face. He still had the outward appearance of a soldier, almost five years after his demobilization and she doubted it would change someday.

The scars, combined to the hair growing on his chest or drawing a line down his navel, confirmed how manly he was. The sight had made her blush and she was sure that even now, the mere evocation of his upper body colored her cheeks with a deep red. And there was his smell, a mix of tobacco, whiskey and sweat, the latter overpowering the other two the night she found him in her bedroom. She would have called it reek, weeks ago, before he came to visit her. Now it was just the Hound's smell, strong and even heady. Sansa had felt terribly small and fragile compared to him and perhaps it was the key to understand their relationship: he exuded masculinity and was the exact contrary of the shy, dainty girl people usually saw in her.

_Will I protest if he asks me for a reward?_ To her great astonishment, she couldn't say yes. She was already drawn to him, though she didn't understand how a man she considered ugly could have that effect on her. The Hound produced a range of emotions inside her, from annoyance to attraction, and all the various shades in between. Guilt and shame didn't belong to the crowd of feelings she felt whenever she thought of him, so far; she nonetheless had to get accustomed to them. Guilt had taken hold of her as soon as she had realized what the Hound had done to Pig and to Meryn Trant. Somehow, they were dead because of her. If she had resisted when the Hound had asked who had hurt her, they'd still be alive. Her voice, when uttering their names, had carried a death sentence and her ignorance about the Hound's intentions at the time didn't exonerate her.

Furthermore, she had become the Hound's accomplice now that she hid his crimes. _Should I go to the police and explain what happened? Should I tell them what I know?_ She shook her head vehemently; the Hound couldn't go to jail, not only because she needed his help to escape. Knowing that she was responsible for his arrest would be even worse than not saying a word. _The police knows everything about this place and they probably know I'm here, yet they didn't do anything against the Lannisters and their friends, like Baelish. Why should I help them? Pig and Trant suffered horrible deaths but in all likelihood, I was not the first girl they hurt. Trant could come and go after what he did, free as a bird; nobody would have brought him to justice._

Shame wormed itself in her mind as the Hound's new visit was coming. At first, she thought they would talk about the murders and perhaps about their flight, she had even harbored the hope he would apologize for his bad manners; these ideas seemed useless now. Sansa longed to see him and in the shelter the darkness provided her, she admitted she wanted him to hold her in his arms. His uncouthness was a part of him, as well as his familiarity; as scandalized as she had been the first time he had dared touch her, she had come to enjoy the sweet nervousness of feeling his eyes – or his hands – on her. It was improper; still, imagining herself in his arms was the only thought that made her feel good these days.

_All this is nonsense. I should sleep instead of torturing myself._ She rolled on to the other side, as if she turned her back on the Hound's ghostly presence and she buried her face in the pillow.

* * *

The room was plunged into darkness when she opened her eyes and she didn't know if she had slept for a long time or not. _It's early: I should go back to sleep._ The snugness of the bed was too tempting; she closed her eyes again, enjoying the warmth that surrounded her, until a door creaked, making her jump.

Sansa cringed under the blankets and tried to adjust her eyes to the darkness. All she could see, as her heart beat wildly in her chest, was a large shadow leaving the corner opposite to her and walking silently. _Who are you? What do you want from me?_ The questions sounded perfectly clear in her mind, yet she couldn't utter a single word. As the intruder came closer, she felt limp, unable to run away like anyone else would do in such circumstances, for she knew it was him.

"What-" she finally managed to say, shivering.

His familiar face, with burns on one side and a persistent sneer, emerged from the shadow. Looming over her, the Hound rested one knee on the mattress that immediately moved under Sansa's form.

"What do you want?"

"I want my reward, Little Bird," he rasped.

She screamed, grabbing a wrist that wasn't the Hound's.

"Sansa, wake up!"

Trembling and trying to catch her breath, she saw Peitho's oval face and the morning sun made her realize it was later than she thought. She sat up, noticing the madam's knee resting on the edge of the bed. _That's why I felt the mattress sink; it was just a dream, a bad dream._ Peitho still wore one of her kimonos, and in the pale light of the morning, her blond hair formed a halo around her head.

"You scared me to death," Sansa explained.

"A nightmare, obviously. Are you familiar with them?"

The girl shook her head.

"Peitho, did I say something in my sleep?" she asked, words laced with nervousness.

"You just screamed... Why, darling, is there something you don't want me to know?"

Peitho casually brushed her cheek, but that tender gesture didn't alleviate Sansa's unease; puzzled by her lack of reaction, the blond woman took a step back and her tone slightly changed.

"Well, you didn't show up, so I came to see if you were alright. We have the rehearsal... and you have a customer tonight. It's an important man, so you'd better get ready."

As soon as Peitho left her, Sansa took her head in her hands and sighed deeply. The daily routine of the brothel was annoying, yet it was nothing compared to the obsession that slowly took hold of her. 

* * *

Her restlessness was visible that day and perhaps it infected the other girls; Peitho watched them carefully, sometimes shaking her head in disapproval. As the show took place the day after, Marillion had come for the rehearsal and accompanied the girls with his piano. Unaware of the noise they made, two workers installed the new counter and behind the upright piano, the self-important musician rolled his eyes with each blow of their hammers.

Baelish came in the meeting hall, swept the room until he found Sansa sitting with the other girls and pointed at her.

"You. You promised me a rendition of _'The Sheik of Araby'_. I want to see it."

"I didn't promise anything," she replied a bit stiffly. "And the girls' dance is before my song."

Sitting in an armchair located in the front-row, Baelish crossed his arms about his chest.

"I want to hear that song. Now."

Glaring at him, she climbed the few stairs leading to the stage, while her dancers protested, saying they were not ready. They were five, dancing while Sansa sang. The dance routine consisted in swaying movements and Sansa herself had showed them what she wanted. She nodded to Marillion who began to play; the so-called oriental tune sounded weird when he played the piano, but the musician had promised it would be just fine with the rest of his band.

 

_"He's the Sheik of Araby,_

_As you can plainly see_

_At night when I'm asleep_

_Into my tent he'll creep"_

She had changed the lyrics so that she could point at a man in the audience and pretend he was the hero of the song. Peitho had laughed at the idea and Sansa hoped Baelish wouldn't find it ridiculous. For lack of customers, she pointed at Baelish himself and the girls who attended the rehearsal began to chuckle. Emboldened by her companions' reaction, she started to move slowly, sweeping the audience and smiling. Grinning, Edna executed a dance step with Peitho, as the other girls laughed and applauded. Baelish didn't laugh, though: he glanced around his shoulder and shushed them with a glare, before turning to the stage.

Sansa's gaze kept sweeping the audience, as Peitho had told her, but every time her eyes fell on Baelish, she saw him staring at her. He ignored the dancers' efforts to show off, and focused on the singer. At some point, it disturbed her and she almost stumbled over a verse.

In the end, as Marillion's piano went silent, she watched Baelish slowly walking to the stage and stopping in front of her. The dancers docilely sat down on the wooden floor of the stage to look at their boss straight in the eyes, while Sansa stood, towering above him. Once again, he ignored the dancers, even if Mary did her best to show herself at her advantage.

"Are you satisfied?" Sansa asked coldly.

"Quite. I like that idea of pointing at someone while you sing. I almost fancied myself surrounded by women in the harem of some exotic palace."

The girls giggled, accustomed to laugh on cue at Baelish's jokes, Mary's laughter resonating longer than the other ones.

"What dress will you wear tomorrow night?" he went on, still focusing on Sansa.

She shrugged imperceptibly. "I don't know yet. You said something about the dancers and the dance of the seven veils, so I guess the dancers' outfit is more important than mine."

"Don't be so sure."

As he leaned against the stage, Sansa took a step back instinctively. Smiling, he gave her an appreciative look and she found his gray-green eyes indiscreet.

"One of the dresses I bought you a few days ago," he commanded in an undertone. "The white one."

The uncanny sparkle in his eyes warned her he was imagining her singing and dancing on stage with that dress.

"Was it an invitation?" he asked, acting as if they were alone in the meeting hall.

"What?"

"I was thinking of the lyrics you changed, dear. _'At night when I'm asleep, Under my tent, he'll creep'_. Was it an invitation?"

Sansa looked daggers at him, scandalized and sickened by the thought. _There's this hole in the wall of my bedroom, allowing you to see everything I do, and you ask if it's an invitation?_

Still staring at her, Baelish stepped back reluctantly before walking to Peitho. As there were other dances and songs to practice, the girls all left the stage to collapse in the nearest armchairs, but Meg held back Sansa.

"What was that?" she asked, her almond-shaped eyes shining with curiosity.

"I don't know. Just Baelish giving his orders, I suppose."

"Oh come on! You saw how he looked at you, how he talked to you. Don't pretend you didn't notice, Sansa! And what dresses was he talking about?"

The mention of the dresses Baelish had offered her brought back the memory of that special afternoon and she immediately lost her temper.

"You don't need to know," she replied, a bit more stiffly than she intended. _I sound like the Hound now, she mused._

"Hold your horses, Miss Sansa! I'm just asking!"

"Fine. I don't feel like answering you."

Taken aback by her reaction, Meg puckered up and walked away, her belly dancer's dress billowing as she sped up. Sansa regretted the way she had talked to Meg, though she couldn't take back her words.

The rest of the day bored Sansa terribly: the rehearsal dragged on and on, as Peitho didn't let anything through and the dancers' mistakes got on Sansa's nerves more than once. That day, though she couldn't explain why, she didn't manage to hide her frustration and her impatience. _But what am I waiting for? Tonight's customer is a man I don't know and tomorrow's show will be as unpleasant as the first one._ She knew what she was waiting for, yet she admonished herself for her lack of will-power. _I shouldn't think of the moment I'll see him again, because I don't know when he'll come to visit me and I'm not sure his intentions are good._

Later that day, she found Baelish in his office as she came to borrow the newspaper – in her desperate attempt to get news from Robb.

"I want you to make a good impression on your customer, tonight," Baelish told her, looking at the girl over steepled fingers. "It's important."

"Why? I thought all the customers were important."

She sounded impertinent, even if her remark had the outward appearance of a well-learned lesson. He chuckled, as she folded the newspaper and put it under her arm.

"Well, Berdokhovski is influential and most of your last customers are important too..."

_What about the Hound?_

"But some customers are just... I don't know, dear. I don't know why the Hound came to see you, in the first place. I thought he would find it pointless because he could just watch... I believed he would choose another girl and fuck her like the dog he is. I must say his persistence impresses me. With the price he pays for you, he could have two girls for the whole night."

As her face turned crimson, she realized Baelish indulged in provocation to see how she would react. _But is it possible? Do men often hire two women at the same time? Is the Hound familiar to these... things?_ Misunderstanding her confused expression, he laughed again.

"Oh Sansa. Don't you worry, he won't come back, most likely. You're way too expensive. He's in the red, now, probably in the hole, going from one pawnbroker to the other."

She clenched her fists; since Baelish couldn't see her hands disappearing under the edge of the mahogany desk, it was the only reaction she allowed herself. Did the Hound really sell all he possessed to come and visit her? She immediately thought of the necklace and the earrings Baelish had offered her ten days ago and wished she could give them to the Hound, so that he could bring the jewels to some pawnshop; unfortunately, Baelish could ask her to wear them anytime and discover how she used his gifts. _But what is the Hound going to do?_

"Never thought he cared about anything else than fighting and knocking back whiskey," Baelish added with a smug smile.

His remark infuriated her so much the idea of biting back a cutting response tempted Sansa, yet she held herself back, realizing any answer would give Baelish a clue. In the end, she simply shrugged and decided to change the subject.

"Who's that important customer who comes tonight?" she asked him.

"Addam Marbrand. He's with the homicide bureau and he'll soon become captain, thanks to the Lannisters' support."

Sansa thought she had most likely met him at the Red Mansion, before her parents' death. _So he's with the police, he knows who I am and he won't do anything to get me out of this place?_ She frowned, then locked eyes with Baelish.

"He's... a detective and he goes to the brothel?" she inquired.

The dark-haired man sitting behind the desk settled back in his armchair.

"He's an old friend of Jaime Lannister," Baelish explained, as if it justified Marbrand's questionable behavior. His gray-green eyes shone with amusement. "You really think the laws the Woman's Christian Temperance Union imposed on us changed anything? Prostitution may be illegal now thanks to those sanctimonious ladies, but places like my house still exist and policemen are faithful customers. They will always be! Now go ready yourself and be kind with him."

* * *

Addam Marbrand didn't bother himself to knock at her door: Peitho accompanied the detective and was all smiles for him when Sansa gingerly opened.

"Oh come on, Sansa, open that door wide!" the madam ordered, acting as if Sansa's cautious behavior was both whimsical and insulting for their guest. "Mr. Marbrand is a gentleman!"

Sansa glared at her but didn't say anything and the door creaked open. Addam Marbrand was a slender man in his forties, with a stern face; his only distinctive feature among the dozen of customers Sansa had seen since the first show in the meeting hall was his copper hair. Holding his hat in one hand, he greeted the girl slightly with a curt nod.

"We met before," he stated, "though you probably don't remember me. A party, at the Red Mansion. I'm sorry for your losses, Miss Stark."

She had all the trouble in the world not to slap him in the face. If Marbrand was with the homicide bureau, he had probably worked on her parents' case and he knew the truth about their death. Still, he came to taunt her and shamelessly swept the room with an appreciative look.

"Why don't you have a seat and relax while Sansa chooses a record?" Peitho suggested, already retreating from the bedroom. "Sansa is a very talented dancer. I hope you'll enjoy your time with us."

The creaking of the door warned Sansa the blond woman had left her alone with the austere, red-haired man. He smiled at her; though she was determined to hate him, she didn't find his expression mocking nor unpleasant. It was just the polite smile of a man people found courteous and that realization somewhat disturbed her. He settled himself in the oversized leather armchair with a sigh of relief, revealing it had been a long day at work.

Sansa did her best to conceal the anger she felt rising inside her and went to the phonograph. She chose the songs she would dance to the night after, during the show, in order to practice them once more. At first, her customer didn't show much reaction, and she remembered Baelish had once told her she made him feel like a judge in a dance contest when she performed; for two or three songs, the detective looked so serious Sansa could mistake him for a judge and she almost expected him to give her a mark every time the phonograph went silent. After a while, he began to smile, then he applauded at the end of _'You'd Be Surprised'_.

"If you want to have a break," he suggested, "it's just fine."

Sansa admitted that he was nicer than the average customer. _He obediently stays in his armchair. No wandering hands, no lustful look, not even the not-so-subtle innuendos that delighted the senator the other day..._ He didn't shower her with compliments and gifts like Berdokhovski did, but she reluctantly admitted to herself he was not the cold monster she suspected he was after her conversation with Baelish.

During her rendition of _'The Sheik of Araby'_ , she pointed at him, like she had done previously with Baelish, and she even exaggerated the swaying of her hips. His eyes widened and a laugh escaped his lips.

"Baelish didn't lie," he commented afterward, as she searched the box containing the records, "you're gifted."

"Did you like the song? I'm going to sing it tomorrow night."

_'Think of the benefit of all the girls'_ , Peitho had told her. _'Always talk about the next show we'll have. If the customers like you, they'll come back.'_

"You'll sing it tomorrow? Get ready for a round of applause, then," he said, grinning.

Sansa couldn't help but smile back at him. Until it was time for him to go, she went on dancing and singing alternatively, and he kept looking at her with a watchful gaze. In the end, he stood up, grabbed his coat and hat, then stared at her with a hint of a smile.

"I really hope you enjoyed your time here," Sansa said politely, reciting Peitho's lesson. "Do you think you will come back?"

"I did enjoy my time here, but I can't promise I'll come back. Your services are... rather expensive."

_More expensive than a whole night with two prostitutes, I know._ The bitter thought made her back stiffen.

"I'm a bit surprised you didn't ask questions," the red-haired man added, as she helped him put on his coat. "Girls usually go curious when they learn I'm a detective. Baelish told me you are curious too and he asked me not to answer your questions... still you didn't ask me anything."

She blushed and averted her gaze; dozens of questions churned in her head and she only restrained herself to ask them because she didn't want to draw his attention on her – let alone on Meryn Trant's case, if Marbrand ever worked on it. Sansa had never imagined not asking questions could arouse his suspicion.

"I- I don't know. I thought asking questions wouldn't be polite as you came here to relax after work."

She hoped her innocent smile and her doe-eyed stare would convince him. His expression was unreadable and he slowly walked to the door, before thanking her and taking his leave.

* * *

 "You have so many records," Peitho exclaimed, searching in the wooden box containing the records Sansa had inherited from her father.

Unlike most people in their circle, Eddard Stark was not the kind to display his wealth, yet he afforded himself the luxury of buying records. Peitho marveled at the sight of it, picking a sleeve from time to time and even drawing the shellac 78 rpm it held.

"They're my father's," Sansa finally commented.

Far from being insignificant, the remark sounded like a warning. The records were Sansa's most prized possession because it was all she had kept from Eddard; anyone who broke or simply didn't take the utmost care of the records exposed himself to the girl's reproach. As Peitho's search went on, Sansa had more and more difficulties to hold herself back and the blond woman must have felt her impatient gaze on her, for she glanced at the girl from time to time.

"Oh, I know you don't like it when someones goes through your things, but I'm just... Oh no, not this one..."

The madam went frowning as she looked at the sleeve she had just selected; from where she was, Sansa couldn't see what record it was, so she crossed the room and planted herself next to the phonograph.

" _'Manon'_ , by Massenet?" Sansa inquired. "What's the matter with it? Father said it was one of the only french operas he enjoyed."

"Your father was a man of taste, but it's a sad story."

Peitho's melancholy soon disappeared and Sansa wished the madam would sometimes give up her fake smiles to be more serious.

" _'Manon'_ is just a story," Sansa observed, a hint of provocation in her voice.

The blond woman didn't react and she feigned curiosity again, retrieving another sleeve from the box.

"Aren't you tired of all this?" Sansa asked abruptly, walking to the French window and looking at the buildings across the street.

"What are you talking about, dear?"

"This place, the shows, the customers..."

Peitho let out a deep sigh and left the box containing records to join her; her arm wrapped around the girl's shoulders.

"My sweet Sansa feels a bit sad, today?" she asked in a compassionate tone.

"I'm not sad. I'm angry."

"Well... Who are you angry at? You have all a girl in your position can dream of: a comfortable bedroom, pretty clothes, even success..."

Though Sansa bit her lip hard not to say something she would later regret, the anger she had bottled up for days suddenly exploded.

"You don't understand. You'll never understand!"

Grabbing her shoulders and making her spin on her heels, the madam forced Sansa to face her.

"I know exactly what you're going through. We're the same, you and I."

That statement, Sansa had heard it before and being compared to a woman she thought venal and morally corrupt infuriated her even more.

"I doubt that very much, Peitho. Tell me, what do we have in common?"

As she wriggled away from the blond woman and stepped back until her back hit the bathroom door, Sansa thought she barely recognized herself in that furious, cruel comment. Peitho's eyes narrowed, her pale complexion suddenly reddened: she crossed her arms about her chest and chuckled nervously.

"Look at you, dear," she said with a hint of foreign accent. "You're still a child and you speak as if you've been around... I've been through this, too."

Opening her arms wide in exasperation, Sansa erupted into anger.

"Is there one good reason why you keep saying we're the same, while obviously there can't be two persons more different from each other than you and I?"

Peitho took a few steps forward.

"If you were my daughter, I would slap you in the face," she hissed in a threatening tone.

"Thank goodness, you're nothing like my mother. My mother was a lady."

The blond woman's eyes narrowed again, though this time she saw something different in the dark irises; the woman imperceptibly frowned, as if tears annoyed her and Sansa bit her lip, realizing how mean her remark sounded.

"I shouldn't have said that," she apologized, averting her eyes. "It was stupid."

When she looked up, Peitho still stared at her, her gaze expressing both sadness and concern.

"I take all the blame on myself," Peitho replied, her voice breaking. "You see me every day acting as if I loved being a whore and selling other girls' body's, but you never got a chance to learn the truth about me... I wasn't meant to become a whore."

The blond woman let the tears roll freely down her cheeks, a poor smile on her lips. She pointed at the bathroom, thus silently asking if she could use the washstand. Sansa nodded and, as Peitho left her to splash her face with water, she patiently waited, her anxiety increasing as she feared what the madam was about to reveal. She came back, composed and serene, her previous emotional outburst only visible in her shining eyes. Sansa tentatively took her hand and led her to the edge of the bed, where they both sat.

"I'm sorry, Peitho," she repeated.

"Don't be. I never told you how I ended up here, so you have no reason to believe I didn't really choose this life."

_What happened, then?_ Sansa still held Peitho's hand in hers: squeezing it gently, she encouraged the blond woman to talk.

"I was born Ljuba Alexandrovna Kostychyn. Quite a name, right?" she said, her voice tinged with irony. "We lived in Kiev and my father had one of the largest lumber mills in the country. I was my parents' youngest daughter and... I suppose we were happy. When I turned sixteen, I made my debut. I remember I felt... intoxicated whenever a man did a double-take when I passed him. I really felt powerful at that time. I didn't fancy myself living in a big house in the countryside, like my elder sister, who had married a wealthy landowner. I wanted to travel, I wanted to live in a big city, perhaps bigger than Kiev was at that time."

She paused, smoothing her skirt. Another squeeze on her hand and Peitho resumed her story.

"I met my first love during a party. He was an officer and he had a bad reputation: gambling, womanizing... But he was handsome, a very handsome man, and I immediately pictured myself with him. We talked about Moscow and Paris until it was time for me to go and I felt something on my way home, like... a void now that I was far from him. We met again and he proposed me, though my parents didn't want to hear anything about him. He wasn't good enough for me, they said."

The blond woman's contralto voice changed and her tone foreshadowed a tragic ending.

"I persisted, and he promised me we would live happy and free from my tyrannical father. I just had to marry him and to run away... which I did, on a winter night."

She went silent again, the memories bringing more tears in her eyes.

"Two days later, I realized I had... besmirched my family's reputation and there was nothing to do about it, except take responsibility for my foolish decision. I stayed with my husband, who was quickly dismissed because of his behavior and left the army. We ended up in a small apartment and he resumed his gambling and drinking, except that now he had a wife. We ran out of money after I gave birth to a little girl. At that time, I had already broken off all ties with my family. I had no one to turn to and my husband was becoming more and more violent. He said he should have never married me, because he believed at that time we would live off my father's money but he had never imagined my family would disinherit me. He said he wanted to abandon our child. I cried, I begged him, but he didn't listen. Sick at heart, I understand I had to find money if I wanted to raise this little girl. There was this man my husband played cards with and I knew he wanted me. So I knocked at his door one night, and that's how it all began. When dawn came, I left his house wordlessly and I went back home; I was humiliated and I felt... sullied, but I had that wad of bills and I thought I could feed my daughter for days with that money."

As she listened to her story, Sansa didn't know if it was proper or not to look at Peitho. When the woman stopped talking again, she let her eyes fall away from the armchair she contemplated so far and drift back towards her: Peitho was crying.

"When I came back, my daughter was gone. My husband had taken her to some orphanage; he refused to say which one, because he knew I would go there. He had bought train tickets to go to Moscow and to start a new life, he said. So we went to Moscow but nothing changed, except he knew what I had done and he now intended to take advantage of his wife's beauty. We spent six months like this, until I found the occasion to leave him. I became a minister's mistress, but I was broken inside and I felt the urge to put as much space between my old life and myself. I had several lovers, all rich and powerful. I suppose I could have come back to Kiev to find my daughter, now that I didn't live with her father anymore, but instead of going back to her, I just tried to intoxicate myself with parties. That and men's look; I always need to feel they desire me. One day, my new lover took me to Paris. We were supposed to stay only a few weeks, but when it was time to go back to Russia, I decided to stay and I spent five years there. For some reason, I felt much better in a foreign country, surrounded by unknown people. When I got bored of Paris, I bought tickets to cross the ocean and I arrived in New York."

Silence stretched in the room as she waited for Sansa's reaction. Understanding the girl didn't know what to say after her confession, Peitho shifted slightly and turned to her.

"Sansa, I'm not saying you would make the terrible mistakes I made. I hope you'll be lucky and you'll never go through what I experienced, but sometimes when I look at you, I recognize the girl I once was... and I know it seems weird, but my daughter would be your age by now and you make me think of her."

Her misty dark eyes met Sansa's and she brushed the girl's cheek. Sansa hesitated, then clumsily took her in her arms; Peitho stiffened a bit, then relaxed and finally clung to her, bursting into tears.

"I'm so sorry," Sansa whispered, not sure Peitho could hear her through her sobbing. "You deserve better than that," she added, breaking away from the blond woman. "You're beautiful, you're smart, you speak several languages... You shouldn't be here. You should marry a good man and start a new life elsewhere."

Peitho wiped her tears, smiling nervously at Sansa's compliment.

"You're a darling, really... I don't deserve better than that, though, and I'll never find a husband who accepts my past. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty lucky to live here instead of some other place. I lost everything the day I ran away from home. I don't really have a choice, now. What can I do, except adapting myself to adverse circumstances? That's what I've been doing for years."

"Is that why you hate _'Manon'_?" Sansa asked.

"A well-born girl who becomes a prostitute and loses everything... Why should it ring a bell?" she said, seemingly laughing at herself. "I wouldn't say I hate _'Manon'_. It's just that I saw this opera once in Paris and the story broke my heart."

Still squeezing Peitho's hands, Sansa looked at her again.

"Did you hear from your daughter?" she shyly inquired.

The blond woman shook her head, repressing a sob. "No. I know what you think, child. _'Why didn't she come back to her daughter, now that she's rich?'_ I'm not rich. Whores never become rich: they show off, they wear the jewels men offer them, but they're penniless so to speak. And even if I had money, why would I go back to Kiev? What do I have to give my daughter? I would just bring shame upon her; it's better for her not to know who I am and how I live. In the meanwhile, I try to take good care of you. I'll do my best to protect you in this shady world of ours."

_Help me escape this house, then._ As the blond woman gave her a faint smile, Sansa understood Peitho would never help her: she had lived that life for too long, forgetting her older self and the dreams she once had in favor of the immediate satisfaction her customers' gifts provided. The woman's resignation struck her, questioning her own ability to run away from the gorgeous house Baelish had locked her in. If a woman as brave and determined as Peitho had lost hope, could Sansa find the strength to leave this place?

Sansa spent the rest of the day thinking of Kiev and of the hardships Peitho had been through, until she heard a knock at her door. When the door squeaked on its hinges, she saw Rose's sullen face and she told her to come in. That unexpected visit lifted her spirits: Sansa had told the cook to go to the Red Mansion and to find the Hound. During the last night he had spent in the brothel, he had agreed on talking to the old woman to decide if she was trustworthy or not. Smiling and even beaming, the girl welcomed Rose, shutting the door behind her.

"Tell me Rose, did you talk to the Hound? Did he give you a message for me?"

The cook's dour expression, as she swept the room and set her piercing gaze on her host disheartened Sansa. The Hound didn't give old women messages for young, featherbrained girls. He didn't give messages at all, nor kisses; he did as he thought best, not caring for other people's opinion. _Not caring for my feelings._

"Well... what did you talk about?" Sansa said tentatively, anxiety slowing down her delivery.

"Trust," Rose spat, anger making her faded blue eyes brighter. "Loyalty. We didn't talk much, though. There's a reason why he goes by that stupid nickname, the Hound."

Glaring, she rolled up her sleeve, revealing the pale skin of her forearm; Sansa recoiled at the sight of the bruises on her wrist.

"What- what happened?" she finally stammered, her mind frantically looking for an answer that exonerated the Hound.

"What happened?" Rose repeated in a mocking tone. "You told me to go and to see your friend, that Clegane or whatever he's called, and that's what he did to me. He nearly broke my arm! Threatened me... He told me I would die a horrible death if I betrayed you. He refused to listen to me when I said I only wanted to help."

An uncomfortable silence wrapped them as klaxons resonated in the street.

"He said he doesn't know when he'll come back here, 'cause he's in the red," Rose added.

Sansa helplessly moved her eyes between the cook's angry face and the dark hues circling her forearm. That was the Hound's deed, that was the world she lived in.


	9. A Red-Haired Flapper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still sitting in the armchair, he contemplated her with an unreadable expression. I know he wants me. Sansa sucked in a deep breath, walked to the armchair, rested one knee next to his thigh and straddled him. Although she felt terribly awkward, she locked eyes with the Hound and noticed his frown. The kindness that had surprised her moments ago retreated from his gray eyes.  
> "What are you doing?" he rasped. "What do you think you're doing, little girl?"

The large mirror on Peitho's dressing table reflected the blond woman's look and her secretive smile, two things that kept surprising Sansa every time she glanced at the shining surface of the glass; the woman who ruled the brothel in Baelish's absence wrapped herself in mystery, most of the time, and she constantly wore a half-smile suggesting she knew things people ignored. It fascinated Sansa, as much as the madam's outward confidence – before she learned the truth about Peitho's past.

After their conversation in Sansa's bedroom, however, the blond woman had looked more concerned and sad than she usually did. Her smiles were fake and girls glanced at each other, wondering why she seemed to feel under the weather. That morning, mischief had replaced the persistent melancholy Sansa had seen in her eyes after Peitho's confession. As she was combing the madam's long blond hair, Sansa saw her gazing at the mirror, then locking eyes with her through their reflection on the flawless surface.

"I... have a surprise for you," Peitho said. Amusement laced each syllable. "No rehearsal, today. I asked a famous hair-dresser to come this afternoon and he'll take care of your... dark-red locks."

"Auburn locks," Sansa corrected.

"Auburn, then. And a woman specialized in corsetry will come here, as well. She will show you some fashionable lingerie – what you Americans call undergarments, I suppose."

"That's very kind, but why do these people come here?" Sansa asked. "Can't we just go to the places they work in?"

Peitho turned around and rested her elbow on the back of her seat, chuckling.

"Well, no, it's more convenient and more fun if they come and treat us like princesses."

_Oh really? Can't you be sincere, for a change, and admit you invited them here because I'm a prisoner and Baelish doesn't want me to leave the house?_ Ignoring her frown, Peitho seemingly anticipated her guests' arrival and began to hum.

"Why?" Sansa asked, catching her unawares. "Why did you invite these people?"

The blond woman lowered her head until her chin rested on her hands gripping the back of her seat in a childish pose.

"I like you and... I decided you deserved a reward after your hard work during the last shows."

Sansa repressed a shiver when she heard the word _'reward'_ ; luckily, the blond woman was staring into space and didn't see her cringing.

"You had so many customers in two weeks. Or is it three weeks?" Peitho went on. "God knows you're gorgeous, but a few changes to enhance your beauty will do no harm, right?"

Sansa was puzzled; she couldn't say why, the idea of spending time with a hair-dresser didn't cause the excitement one would expect from her. Her former self would have been delighted, but the prospect of meeting a man who wanted to change the way she did her hair bothered her this time.

After the morning chores and lunch, the hair-dresser knocked at the massive door of the brothel and Peitho let him in with a broad grin; the other girls saw him and wondered what the slender, eccentric man with a thin black mustache was doing in Baelish's house. They rolled their eyes when they understood he had come for Sansa and not for them, which confirmed Sansa's apprehension. _Once more, I'm the spoiled child and everyone has a good reason to envy me. But I didn't ask. I never wanted this._

Peitho led the man who carried a suitcase containing his equipment upstairs, chatting and joking with him while Sansa followed obediently.

"We'll go in my apartments," Peitho explained. "It will be more convenient."

As Sansa expected it, the man marveled at the sight of Peitho's room and complimented her for its classical yet elegant decoration; then, he turned to Sansa, as if he first saw her and, putting down his suitcase, he opened his arms wide in a theatrical gesture.

"My Goodness! What a lovely girl! It's a pleasure for me to devote my art to the service of such a darling!"

Sansa bit her tongue not to burst out laughing and she smiled politely at the hair-dresser who kept praising her beauty. Peitho walked to the girl and took her in her arms, thus expressing her pride.

"Isn't she splendid?" she asked, turning to the man with a conspiratorial smile. "Tell me you're going to make my beloved Sansa even more beautiful."

"My dear, I will do my best to make her sublime, but what's a miserable hair-dresser compared to a mother? You did all the work!"

Peitho's grin vanished when she understood his veiled reference: the man thought he was subtle while addressing this compliment and he turned pale when he realized his mistake.

"I'm not her mother," the madam coldly replied.

At that moment, Peitho still had her slender arms around Sansa's neck; she stiffened a bit, eager not to show her disappointment and she slowly removed her hands to bring them to her hips.

"You probably think I'm much younger than I really am," Sansa offered, trying to make up for the hair-dresser's blunder. "Yesterday night, a customer asked me if Peitho and I were sisters. That's what most people believe-"

She stopped short from saying more, noticing Peitho's unease as the girl trapped herself in dubious explanations. The hair-dresser babbled his apologies and by a silent agreement, they all turned to the dressing table.

"Well, first, I'd like to see your hair without all these hairpins you use," the hair-dresser commanded, regaining his composure as far as his field of expertise was concerned. "Just remove them all, child."

Standing by the dressing table, while Peitho and the hair-dresser looked at her, Sansa obeyed, putting down the pins on the edge of the table. When it was over, her auburn locks covered most of her back. Facing the mirror, the girl wanted to observe her companions, but all she could see was Peitho's bust with her folded arms and the hair-dresser's constant smile. She cautiously glanced over her shoulder.

"What are you going to do?" she inquired, each word revealing her nervousness.

The man stepped forward and put protective hands on the girl's upper arms; far from reassuring Sansa, it only increased her bad feeling.

"You're an authentic beauty with your pale skin and red hair. But your- your friend asked me to give a modern twist to your hair-style. You're going to love it."

The man's comforting words didn't convince her, but she couldn't protest, could she? Peitho's encouraging gaze told her it was already too late to express reservations.

"By the end of the day, you'll be the most exquisite flapper who lives in New York," the blond woman promised her.

One hour later, Sansa did her best to conceal her opinion about the hair-dresser's work. As she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, her disappointment bordered on depression. _Bobbed hair, that's what they call it._ Like Edna's dark hair, hers had been cut at about the level of the jaw-line and straightened. A fringe hid her high forehead. _Mother loved my hair_ , she thought, biting her bottom lip. At her feet and all around the chair she was sitting in, auburn curls had fallen, creating strange patterns on the oriental rug. _Mother loved my hair. Sometimes, at night, she combed it herself. She wouldn't like this._

Raising her gaze, she stared at her reflection and what she saw puzzled her. The young woman looking back at her was undoubtedly more fashionable than the girl who had followed Peitho and the hair-dresser in the staircase one hour before. The dreamy look her low chignon gave her had disappeared, giving way to a more determined expression. Whenever she pouted, she looked like one of these actresses whose portrait was visible on posters, throughout the city. Her former self was gone, replaced by a bolder version of the girl who had arrived in Grand Central Station two years before. Somehow, she was exactly what she wanted to look like at that time, when she fancied herself living in New York and now that she had the appearance of a flapper, it didn't interest her anymore. _Is it what I look like, now? Being a flapper is more than wearing a bob-cut. Flappers do what they want and they don't care about everyone else's opinion. Flappers are free. I'm not free._

"You're beautiful," Peitho told her, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and kissing her temple. "My delicious little flapper. My turn, now."

Sansa reluctantly pushed herself from her seat and asked if she could keep one of her locks. Peitho and the hair-dresser chuckled, wondering what she would do with it.

"I think she's getting sentimental," the blond woman explained, staring at Sansa who knelt to pick a long, glossy auburn strand.

_I have a heart and you sometimes forget you have one, too_ , she mused, exasperated by the hair-dresser's laughter. The hair-dresser put away his scissors and advised Peitho about the way she could do her hair to look younger or more fashionable. In the end, he left them and the blond woman let out a sigh of contentment.

"Our other guest shouldn't be long now, with her incredible underwear. She has a knack for these things... She knows exactly what I love about lingerie," Peitho told her.

_Lingerie. Mother never used that word._ It sounded a little too fancy and too daring for Catelyn Stark who believed clothes had to be functional and elegant rather than fashionable and who had rolled her eyes at the sight of shorter skirts at the end of the war. Not that her mother didn't like to buy a pretty dress for herself from time to time, but there had to be some good reason.

That circumspect attitude towards clothing had exasperated Sansa more than once, back in Saint-Paul or once they had moved to New York. Catelyn was so different from Cersei in that respect the young and naïve Sansa she was at that time had found the comparison hilarious. Giving up the simple pleasure of buying a new dress seemed a bit drastic and she would never agree to such an extreme measure, but she now understood why her mother frowned whenever she saw women rushing into department stores such as Saks & Company and Bergdorf Goodman: Catelyn had more important things to do in her life.

The woman Peitho had invited was a plump blond in her fifties, with a slight squint and who had the bad habit of pinching Sansa's cheek as if she still was eight years old. She came in Peitho's bedroom with her young assistant and they spread out on the bed the countless items they had brought in the brothel. In her entire life, Sansa had never seen as many petticoats and girdles. Since the other girls had not been allowed to meet the hairdresser and to make the most of his visit, Peitho asked some of them to come – her favorites, Sansa guessed.

The sight of undergarments thrilled Edna, Mary, Dorothy and Lois: they jumped up and down, chattered with passion and said they wanted to try on everything. For Peitho and the two women she had invited, it was a sweeping change compared to Sansa's cautious attitude and the bedroom was suddenly filled with exclamations and laughter.

The other girls complimented Sansa for her new haircut, Edna insisting on the fact that she was much more attractive with her short hair, Dorothy saying that she was the spitting image of some actress Sansa had never heard about. Slow but steady, Sansa's lack of enthusiasm about her bobbed hair faded out, and it finally disappeared. Her mother wasn't there to comb her long hair nor to praise its auburn color, so what was the point in keeping the same haircut forever? Edna promised her she spent less time in the bathroom, combing and taking care of her hair since she had adopted the fashionable bob-cut and that argument had overpowered the last remains of hesitation Sansa had bottled up during the afternoon.

Soon enough, the girls began to try on the novelties; as Peitho changed herself in her bathroom, Dorothy and Lois decided to forgo modesty and began to undress on the spot. Blushing, Sansa turned her back on their half-naked figures, making the girls laugh again.

"She's a lady," Lois commented, speaking as if Sansa wasn't there. "Beyond a doubt."

"God, if she's so shy when we remove our clothes, how is she going to do with her first customer?" Mary asked, abruptly showing her concern. "Her first real customer, I mean."

Nobody dared answer Mary's question. _I will never have a real customer, because the Hound will take me away before it happens_ , Sansa mused. _I'll never have to sell my body, hopefully._ The same anxiety that haunted her since her arrival in Baelish's brothel came back, turning upside down her certainties. She could be disappointed in the most cruel way, for she had already backed the wrong horse and she had fallen to earth with a bang more than once. No matter how bitter the disillusion had been, she still hoped her future would be brighter: on a good day, it seemed wise and necessary, like the expression of her survival instinct, but on a bad day, she called herself a fool to be so naïvely optimistic.

"Why don't you put these on?" Edna told her, shoving a pair of garters and silk stockings in Sansa's hands.

The dark-haired woman was smiling encouragingly; Sansa didn't dare refuse but her shoulders sagged with frustration when she realized Peitho was still inside her bathroom. As the girls expected her to put aside modesty and to change clothes in front of them, she swept the room until she found a corner between the desk and the wall and she put on the items Edna had given her. Afterward, the girls insisted on seeing if the stockings fitted Sansa so she was forced to show most of her legs. Mary whistled with admiration and Peitho, who had finally left the bathroom, complimented her.

Eager to sell as many items as possible, the plump blonde Peitho had invited made Sansa try on see-through nightgowns, brassieres and step-in panties. In a trice, Sansa felt like the undergarment retailer and the girls had turned her into a doll they dressed and undressed ad libitum because she was too embarrassed to protest.

With clothes scattered across the floor and the half-naked women who filled the room with laughter, Peitho's apartments looked like a modern version of a seraglio, a merry gynaeceum where girls exchanged clothes and observed each other. Peitho was taller than anyone else, but only one inch taller than Edna or Sansa; Sansa had the longest legs and Mary envied her for that. As for Dorothy and Lois, the blond sisters argued endlessly to know which one of them had bigger breasts. They all agreed on the fact that Mary's round bottom was her best asset. In the end, Sansa almost found the situation funny, even if she couldn't quite get accustomed to the sight of the girls' naked breasts.

_In what kind of place am I?_ she asked herself when the madam took her hand and dragged her to the cheval mirror.

"Look at us," Peitho said, posing in a lace petticoat and wrapping a protective arm around Sansa's waist. "Aren't we beautiful?" The blond woman rested her head in the crook of Sansa's neck, giving an appreciative look to the girl's outfit - brassiere, panties and silk stockings. "Tell me, child, who could resist us?"

As they stayed like this, facing the mirror, Sansa breathed in Peitho's distinctive perfume – oak-moss and bergamot; little by little, she got used to that smell and identified it as the friendly yet secretive woman who ruled the brothel. After the dreadful night when Meryn Trant had come, it had even been a smell she associated with comfort – an altered, distorted vision of what comfort should be, now that she looked back on it.

Until that day, Peitho had been her boss, her adviser; she had tried to become a mother figure and even a friend the afternoon she had confided in Sansa. Still, an invisible barrier remained between them, because Sansa stubbornly refused the future Baelish had given her, that same future Peitho believed the girl would finally accept, if only she found her advantage in it. The madam imagined that advantage could take the shape of jewels and pretty clothes – items Baelish lavishly provided her – and whenever Sansa rejected the things that made Peitho happy, or that dissipated her melancholy, she insulted the blond woman. Thus, Sansa didn't dare protest and let Peitho hold her tightly.

At some point, a mischievous spark appeared in Peitho's dark eyes and she kissed Sansa's neck, a daring gesture which made the girl blush instantly. _What was that?_ They were half-naked, Peitho had her arms around Sansa's waist and what that kiss suggested disturbed her. As usual, the other girls laughed at her embarrassment and Sansa felt glad they were not alone in the bedroom. In the end, Peitho bought a heap of petticoats, girdles, stockings and brassieres, following which the retailer and her assistant retreated with the undergarments the girls had neglected. Every girl left Peitho's room with a small pile of lace fabric, giggling and whispering thanks.

"See," Edna said, nudging Sansa. "It was fun."

* * *

With the customers coming to see her dance every night, Sansa had only briefly met Evie since the afternoon Baelish had answered some of her questions. They had not found enough time to talk and Sansa's apprehension only grew with each passing day. How could she explain to Evie what Baelish wanted to do with her child? How could she help her escape if she was stuck in the house?

However, Sansa decided to rush upstairs and to knock at her door one Sunday afternoon, as most of the girls had taken a day off. She found the young woman sitting on her bed, one hand on her round belly; as soon as she saw Sansa, a broad grin lit up her face and she motioned the girl to the only chair available, before grabbing the slate and piece of chalk she kept under her mattress.

"How do you feel?" Sansa asked.

_"Lazy. What about you?"_ she wrote hastily on the slate.

Sansa felt embarrassed; with anyone else, ten minutes of small talk would be necessary before getting to the heart of the matter, but such courtesies didn't exist with Evie. Silence stretched in the cubby-hole where Evie slept, until the pregnant woman made the piece of chalk squeak against the dark surface of the slate.

_"What do you want to talk about, Sansa?"_

Sansa shut her eyes tight for a second, realizing there were not many ways to explain what she had learned from Baelish.

"I've been talking with Baelish and... I asked him about you, about the child. He told me he wanted to give your baby to some rich family... I should say he wants to sell the baby... You can't stay here any longer, you have to go away before it happens..."

Evie didn't flinch: when Sansa looked at her pale face, she only saw something akin to resignation.

Evie took the slate again and wrote in big letters: _"I know."_

_But how is it possible? If she already knows, why didn't she run away?_ Evie silently took in Sansa's bewilderment, let out a sigh and reached out to grab Sansa's hand in a comforting gesture.

"Why?" Sansa asked. "Why don't you just... leave?"

The squeaking of chalk was the first answer she got, before Evie locked eyes with her.

_"When you work in a brothel, you give up everything. You don't own anything."_ She wiped the slate with her hand, then wrote again. _"You don't own your body. I guess even this child isn't mine."_

Sansa didn't notice it at first, but she was crying silently.

_"Don't mistake me. I love the baby."_ Evie paused, visibly fighting back tears, before going on. _"But where would I go? How can I take care of him? Or her?"_

The memory of Peitho's confession came back unbeknownst to her, forcing its way through her mind; after their conversation, she had imagined Peitho's daughter was brought to some sordid orphanage, some blond little girl all alone in a huge room with dozens of abandoned children. For a reason Sansa couldn't explain, she pictured the place like a deserted hospital isolated in a snow-covered landscape. _No, she thought. Things can't happen like this. Even if Evie's baby is supposed to end up in a wealthy family instead of living in an orphanage. Evie can take care of this child. She just needs help._ Sniffing, she resolutely raised her eyes and saw Evie's sad expression.

"Assuming you have a roof over your head and... a job, would you keep this child?" Sansa asked.

Forgetting about the slate, Evie nodded eagerly, muttering something the girl recognized as _"of course"_.

_"Of course if I lived anywhere else and if I had a respectable job."_ Evie wiped again the slate, adding hastily: _"I would work day and night to raise my child."_ Then, Evie let her eyes fall away; she stared into space for long seconds, before taking the piece of chalk she had kept. _"But you can't help me; you're still stuck here. Don't take risks for me."_

"What kind of risks are we talking about?" Sansa said, gesturing with frustration. "Did you ever try to escape?"

In spite of her interrogative tone, she already knew the answer. The reason why the girls, including Evie, stayed in Baelish's house instead of flying away, came down to one word: submission. Girls obeyed and didn't leave because years of intimidation and contempt had crushed their will; their feelings, theirs dreams had been extracted one by one, the slow and mind-numbing process making them a bunch of bodies men could rent for an hour or for a night.

"Why don't we try?" Sansa went on, as Evie shook her head sadly. "Right now?"

Evie reluctantly pushed herself from the sagging bed she slept in and followed her downstairs. Sansa suspected it was more because she wanted to make sure her friend wouldn't get into trouble than because Evie agreed on her plan.

Once on the first floor, they tiptoed to the entrance door, Evie growing nervous and stopping to listen from time to time. Sansa reassuringly took her hand, though she wasn't overconfident. _Keep calm. You're just having a look and nobody's here to stop you. But what if there's no one to stop us? Shall we go? Where to go, then?_ Baelish's office was locked and she knew he wasn't there; still, the sight of the heavy wooden door sent shivers down her spine, when she realized what she was up to do. _The church. The nearest church, it doesn't matter if it's a catholic church or not. They will help us._

How her shaking hand found the door handle, Sansa couldn't explain it: the next thing she did was opening the door cautiously. Evie cringed and held Sansa's hand tighter as the hinges creaked ominously. _Outside. The real world. The world I belong to._

Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she crossed the threshold, firmly leading Evie on the front steps. Despite the cold, greyish light of December, despite the wind that made them shiver in the nondescript street where Baelish's house was located, a breath of freedom raised a smile on Sansa's face even if dozens of questions came tumbling out in her head. _Where is the nearest church? What about the money? We can't live on people's charity. I should have taken the earrings Baelish offered me. If Evie waits for me at the end of the street, I'll run upstairs, I'll take the jewels, two coats and I'll join her as soon as-_

"What the hell are you doing here?"

A large hand grabbed her shoulder and forced her to spin on her heels while Evie instantly recoiled. In the doorway stood a man she had never met so far: solidly built, he had a square jaw and a squashed nose. She supposed he was as old as Baelish, or perhaps older, because his hair was gray and his forehead was wrinkled.

"Inside. Now," the man commanded.

Sansa reacted as the spoiled girl she sometimes was before her parents' death. "We were just... taking some fresh air. Who are you?" she inquired, crossing her arms about her chest.

She briefly met Evie's eyes and forbid her to obey the unknown man.

"My name's Lothor Brune," he growled, motioning the girls inside the house. "Mr. Baelish told me to watch the house in his absence and to prevent anyone from coming in. He didn't say I would have to prevent your flight."

His imposing bearing convinced Sansa she didn't have any chance to succeed if she ran away and tried to leave him behind; she also noticed the pistol in his shoulder holster.

"Why didn't I see you before?" she asked again, reluctant to give up so easily.

"Mr. Baelish hired me a few days ago and there's the reason why he chose me."

"Which is?" she went on, her mocking tone seemingly annoying Lothor Brune.

"I'm discreet."

With that, he grabbed her upper arm and led her inside before doing the same with Evie and slamming the door shut. _I hate that sound._ It usually meant a customer had arrived in but in this case, the unpleasant noise reminded her she was a prisoner and so was Evie.

"So you're here to protect us?" she said, as Evie sheepishly walked to the staircase.

"I guess you can say that."

"Did Mr. Baelish hire some other people, or is it just you?"

"You're asking too many questions for a girl who only opened the door to get some fresh air," he replied, smiling.

His expression brought out his squashed nose, making him more ugly than he really was. _He knows. He saw us walking on tiptoe to the entrance door and glancing to be sure nobody watched us._

"You're the girl I see from time to time on her balcony, right? I'm sure you can get some fresh air upstairs."

_The balcony. I should have thought of it before._ Feigning obedience, she crossed the entrance hall, reached the staircase and called Evie, whose condition slowed down the pace. The red-haired girl was on her way to the third floor, when Sansa's voice stopped her.

"Join me in my room, please," Sansa pleaded.

Evie rolled her eyes, as if she was telling her younger friend _'I told you so'_ , but she followed Sansa all the same. Once inside, she showed Evie the bathroom and its large window; the fire escape was easy to reach, at least Sansa kept repeating it to herself.

"You can escape this way," she told Evie. "It's just a flight of stairs. All you have to do is step over the window ledge and you're outside."

At first, Evie refused, clinging to Sansa. After a while, she nonetheless decided to give a try and she contorted herself – despite her round belly – to step over the window ledge. Sansa thought she was almost there, when Evie's face tensed and she put her hands on her tummy with a panicked gesture. Sansa grabbed her upper arm and prevented her from falling just in time. They put off their attempt to use the fire escape; Evie sat on the bed, trying to catch her breath.

She didn't want Sansa to call anyone – especially not the doctor who seemed to scare her – it was not the first time she had that kind of faintness and there was nothing to do about it. In the end, she thanked Sansa for her solicitude and left the girl alone with her persistent frustration.

* * *

She had butterflies in her stomach and there was no way of denying it. Her shaky, clammy hands, her red cheeks and her nervous smile were the Hound's deed and it didn't get any better when he came in. She had straightened her hair and applied lipstick in contemplation of his arrival; she had perhaps been heavy-handed with her perfume, but after all, it was the first time he paid her a visit since the confusing night when he had waited for her in her bedroom.

There was a change, though, and she immediately smelt fresh soap on his skin as she helped him remove his overcoat; his hair was still damp, showing he had taken a bath before leaving the Red Mansion. Even after a bath, even if the faint perfume of soap contrasted with the reek of alcohol she had smelt on him the last time he had come in Baelish's house, she recognized the typical smell she associated with him: tobacco and whiskey. _He isn't drunk, though. He doesn't have bloodshot eyes tonight but his clothes smell of whiskey: you'd say he spends his days inside a warehouse full of whiskey casks._

Far from soothing her nerves, the notion that the Hound was sober disturbed her even more. Was he going to explain his behavior? Did he plan to tell her what had happened to Meryn Trant's? _Don't forget he probably did all this for you. You should be flattered and grateful._ After folding his overcoat and putting it on the console table, as she always did, she slowly walked back to him, giving him enough time to contemplate the blue dress she wore that night and planting herself in front of him. She pointed at his shoulder holster.

"Are you going to keep this?" she asked.

He nodded silently, the unburnt side of his face twitching as he stared at her. "What happened to your hair?" he asked in a low growl.

_God, he doesn't like it._ She could see disapproval in his gray eyes.

"Peitho insisted on... inviting a hair-dresser here and he cut my hair. It's... more fashionable."

_Said like that, it sounds completely stupid._ The Hound reached out and brushed the straightened, auburn strands near her jaw.

"I loved your long hair," he rasped.

His reproachful tone struck her and she averted her eyes as he still touched her hair. Her heart pounded wildly and when he finally let his arm fall to his side, she didn't move; despite his dark hair hanging as he looked down at her and covering most of his face, Sansa felt his eyes roaming over her slender form. A simple stare made her helpless and that realization incensed her; she gave him a faint scowl, then she found it hard not to insult the Hound. _It's unfair. I'm there, helping him with his coat, smiling, trying to be kind, and what does he do? Instead of repaying my kindness with some explanation about the last time we met, he criticizes my haircut and he eyes me shamelessly. And I don't even move, as if I enjoyed the situation. Stupid Sansa!_

Finding some courage in self-flagellation, she pointed at him.

"In my world, people apologize when they behaved like rude, boorish persons," she spat. "They apologize for hitting old women and for frightening girls."

"In your world?" he repeated, stepping forward and towering above her threateningly. "It's been ages since I didn't listen to the perfect, polished daughter of Catelyn Stark. I didn't come here for apologies. People usually don't ask me to apologize, for some reason."

_Why did he take the trouble to have a bath before coming, then? Isn't that a proof he wants to make amends?_

"Time is running out, girl," he told her, boring into her eyes. "You should turn on that damn phonograph, or Baelish is going to knock at this door, wondering what I'm doing to you."

Furious, she crossed the room and chose a record at random before placing it on the turntable. As the trumpet played a cheerful tune, she stepped back and bumped into him. She felt his hands grabbing her upper arms and making her turn around. She repressed the urge to push him away from her, knowing it was pointless and once more, she blamed herself. _I can't think straight when he's around: I hit the ceiling, I cry, I even beg him..._

"What about your scars?" he said, stopping her self-examination.

"My scars? They're fine, thank you."

The traces of anger he recognized in her tone made him smile.

"You don't know anything about scars, girl. Show me your back and I'll tell you if they're fine or not."

_No, not again. Think of something... anything that shuts him up._

"Very well," she answered. "You remember I cleaned your cuts, last time? Or did you forget that, too?"

He frowned at what she implied and she saw the stormy eyes grew darker; leaning back against the table supporting the phonograph, she tried to put as much space as she could between herself and the Hound.

"There's no reason why I should be the only one showing the gashes I have," she stiffly went on.

_He won't agree. He doesn't like to be touched, he even refused to answer my questions about his cuts. He won't agree-_

"Deal," he said, with a challenging look.

Before she could protest, he got rid of his shoulder holster, then removed his gray waistcoat and threw it on the bed. Staring at her defiantly, he unbuttoned his shirt, and, with a hastiness that left her dumbfounded, he took off his shirt and undershirt. The rippling muscles produced on her the effect she expected and dreaded at the same time. _Confusion. Blushing. Why does he make me so weak? God, he's... I can't say 'handsome', nobody would associate that word with the Hound... 'Impressive' suits him better._ She liked 'impressive': it didn't give the impression she was falling for him but it did justice to the Hound's uncommon build and thick muscles.

The Hound took a step forward and squared his shoulders. _He knows, I'm sure he knows._ A rapid glance at his face convinced her he enjoyed the situation and took a perverse pleasure in watching her reddening cheeks. Ignoring his crooked half-smile, she focused on his chest: she soon came to the conclusion that he was so tall she couldn't do otherwise when he stood in front of her, that his massive shoulders obstructed the view. The scars, old or new, had left paler marks on his skin; she mentally tried to draw a map of his cuts and she gave up when remembering he had removed his clothes for another reason. _The wound you cleaned, Sansa: focus on it._ She easily found it again, for the deep cut on his collarbone had turned into a long scar, the pinkish color of the scar tissue standing out against his skin.

"See. It's clean," he rasped. "The Little Bird made a fuss about it, but it was nothing."

Despite the reproach and the teasing his words conveyed, there was a sort of tenderness in his tone that made her blush again. She felt something deep inside her; it was vague and she couldn't explain what was happening to her, nor why. The situation was so embarrassing she wanted to be done with it and at the same time she wished it never ended. _I'm completely mad. It's ridiculous._ She averted her eyes and let them fall on his muscled arms; although dark hair covered his forearms, there were scars by places – probably more than on his chest – and she noticed a thin, long gash on his right arm, next to the wrist. This one was fresh, the blood on its edges barely coagulated.

"What is this?" she asked, hoping he wouldn't see the goosebumps on her skin.

She bit her lip at once, recalling how he had answered her last inquiries about his cuts. _Please don't shout at me, this time._

"Nothing," he shrugged. "I carried some casks from one place to another, today. Must have scratched my arm with a damn nail."

"You have to clean this," she lectured him. "If you scrape your hands with a nail-"

"Want to play doctor? Fine."

His remark disturbed her even more: the innuendo, uttered with a detached tone, turned her into a little girl... or an easy lay. _I'm not an easy lay; I dressed myself up for him and I try to be as kind as possible, that's all._

"I just want to apply iodine on your cut," she explained, offended, and she led him to the bathroom.

Before she could open the closet to take the bottle of iodine, the song ended and she went back to her phonograph, picking this time _'You'd be Surprised'_. Irving Berlin's music filled the room; when Sansa turned to the bathroom, she saw the Hound's large figure in the door frame, staring at her.

"You always choose that song when you're ill-at-ease, or when you need encouragement," he commented as she move past him.

_He's observant. Much more than I am._ She had never realized 'You'd be Surprised' was for her as comforting as a pair of old sleepers.

"It's just that... I love that song," she said, unsuccessfully trying to sound as detached as he was.

The Hound was able to see past this poor explanation. "What are you afraid of, Little Bird?"

Instead of answering his question, Sansa removed her long gloves, opened the closet, then retrieved the small bottle containing iodine. _What am I afraid of? Imagining what you could do to me makes me uncomfortable... though I'm much more afraid of what I'd let you do to me._

"Wash your hands and forearms," she ordered him.

The Hound complied, before wiping his hands on a towel, while she prepared a compress. Though he didn't say anything and didn't even look at her, she felt the tension growing in the confined space of the bathroom and she rued the unease that made her hands shaky. He silently faced her and he extended his arm, palm turned to the ceiling, so that she could tend to his wound. Sansa's eyes moved from his face to the large, callous hand he held out to her – that same hand that had squeezed the life out of Meryn Trant, she thought. She observed the long fingers, the old scars on the lifeline, the hardened skin on the phalanges for a while, before placing a hesitating hand under his and applying the compress soaked with iodine on the gash near his wrist.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, eager to break the awkward silence.

Seemingly careless of her unease and reluctant to make conversation, the Hound only shook his head. He stared at her, she could tell it, though his hanging hair covered his scars and most of his face, showing only the glisten of his eye; he contemplated her and he bid his time. When the cut was cleaned, she threw the compress in the bin and thoroughly washed her hands, wondering what was next. She still had her hands under the faucet when she felt his on her back, buttoning down her dress.

"Can't you just wait?" she protested, scandalized by his manners.

"No, I can't," he mumbled and she soon became aware it was true; he couldn't wait any longer after days without seeing her.

Sansa heard him cursing when he saw she wore a brassiere under her blue dress. He vainly tried to get rid of the bothersome undergarment until she helped him. _What am I doing? If he asks for more than checking on my back, how am I going to refuse now?_ Because of the incongruous situation, she had kept her eyes downcast so far but his uneven breathing startled Sansa and made her raise her gaze; above the washstand, the mirror reflected his face, still half-covered by his dark hair. Captivated by the sight of her back, he ran his knuckles on her shoulders, his mouth ajar.

"Hold your dress," he said under his breath.

She hardly had the time to grasp the neckline of her dress before he slipped his thumb between her skin and the straps, then let it slide off her shoulder. _He could do anything_ , she mused, that notion made her giddy. When he had his fill of silent observation, he helped her get dressed again. The only noise coming from the phonograph was the crackle of the needle against the record; Sansa hurried herself to the phonograph and replaced her favorite song by another one she chose at random. Meanwhile, the Hound put on his clothes and settled in the oversized leather armchair his height and his solid built made common.

_Now I want explanations._ Her heart beat wildly as she turned to him; however, she decided not to ask him head-on and she pointed at the small table next to the armchair.

"There are sandwiches, if you're hungry. And whiskey, too," she offered.

"Whiskey? You want me to get drunk? I thought Eddard Stark's daughter disapproved drunkenness. What makes you so reckless, girl?"

Ignoring his mocking tone, she walked to the table, took the small carafe Rose had filled with an amber-colored liquid and poured some in a glass she held out to the Hound.

"I suppose you need more than that to get drunk," she commented. "But there's water too if you want."

He wordlessly took the glass of whiskey and drank it in two long gulps, never letting her out of his sight. Sansa stood by the armchair as he ate the sandwiches Rose had prepared; she placed another record on the turntable when the song ended and she became aware she didn't recall what songs they had listened to so far – except _'You'd be Surprised'_ , because he had drawn her attention on it. Anything that wasn't related to the Hound didn't interest her. _Is it mutual attraction? Does this feeling work both ways?_ The Hound had eaten the sandwiches and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand when she turned to him again.

"How do you feel?" he asked her, a bit concerned.

It was such a change in his behavior since he had come in, from rudeness to solicitude, she surrendered and forgot the questions she wanted to ask him; she shrugged and avoided his gaze, convinced she could burst into tears.

"Come," he whispered, leaning forward and reaching out to take her hand. He gently made her sit in his lap, her back to him and he rubbed her upper arms when he noticed she was cold. "Tell me who hurt you," he urged her.

"Nobody hurt me," she replied. "I can't stand this place, that's all. I thought you would never come back."

"There was no fucking way to see you, after that show. No way to save a day here, no way to leave the Red Mansion... Are you sure none of your new customers hurt you?"

She shook her head vehemently.

"If they touch you, if they threaten you-"

"I don't want you to kill anyone," she cut him off, swiveling her hips and glancing around her shoulder.

His expression was unreadable: when she decided there was something akin to guilt in the way he set his jaw, she noticed his pleading eyes.

"That's what you did, right? You killed those men."

Silence stretched between them, giving her enough time to imagine the man who tried to comfort her as a murderer, and the gray, thoughtful eyes darkening with fury.

"I had to," he finally said. "I promised you I would get you out of this place without a scratch, and I already failed. Those pricks had threatened you and I couldn't let them come back here. You don't mourn them, do you?"

"I- I don't. How- How did they die?" she shyly asked, turning her back to him again.

She felt his muscles stiffen underneath her but he didn't refuse to speak.

"I beat that fat man you called Pig and I slit his throat." His tone was so matter-of-fact when evoking Pig's death she repressed a shudder. "As for Trant..." He sounded hesitating and she listened carefully to his confession. "I- I don't remember. I was drunk... I remember a back alley and Trant's car, that's all. I don't fucking know how I killed that bastard. I did it without a second thought: at least, I know that for sure. And I'll do it again."

The trumpet solo heralded the end of the song and Sansa left him to pick another record in the wooden box. All of a sudden, she remembered her confusion a few nights before, when she had realized the Hound could demand his reward anytime. _Is this what he wants? Why would he be so kind with me, suggesting he would kill again if need be, if it was not for a reward?_

Still sitting in the armchair, he contemplated her with an unreadable expression. _I know he wants me._ Sansa sucked in a deep breath, walked to the armchair, rested one knee next to his thigh and straddled him. Although she felt terribly awkward, she locked eyes with the Hound and noticed his frown. The kindness that had surprised her moments ago retreated from his gray eyes.

"What are you doing?" he rasped. "What do you think you're doing, little girl?"

"I thought-" she tried to explain, putting her hands on his shoulders, "I just thought you would like..."

Her position was unstable and he didn't do anything to help her find her balance; she instinctively bent back, fearing his furious reaction and wondering why she had taken such a foolish decision.

"I'd like what? I'd like to fuck you bloody after I killed a man who tried to rape you? That's how you see me? Fuck, you're behaving like a whore!"

_A whore?_ Taken aback by his disgusted look, she hastily got on her feet, then crossed her arms about her chest in a self-protective gesture.

"Is that how you see me?" she nearly shouted.

"I don't want you to act like a whore, like you just did, that's all I said!"

"So when you button down my dress to see my back or when you... look hard at me, it's fine, but if I try to show my gratitude-"

"It was not gratitude, girl! You were just mimicking these whores you live with. I barely recognized you when I came in, with your short hair and your thick make-up. And do me a favor: stop drenching yourself in perfumes!"

He pushed himself from the armchair and she stepped back immediately, fighting back tears. Sansa knew he was right and it infuriated her even more; her behavior since the minute he had arrived, alternating seduction and anger, was inconsistent and ludicrous. They looked at each other defiantly, as none of them wanted to acknowledge their wrongs, let alone to take all the blame. _You should act as an adult, instead of shouting like a little girl_ , she admonished herself.

Sansa felt it hard to admit, but she wasn't proud of her attitude; she nonetheless refused to apologize. _He compared me to a whore, he should apologize first._ The Hound glared at her, a cold rage distorting his features and giving a kind of horrifying symmetry to his face: the unburnt side looked as tense and threatening as the scarred one.

"Don't you worry, girl. I'll stay here until it's time for me to go; no need to slam the doors and to startle the blond whore who's your friend. Just put another record on the turntable from time to time."

He settled back in his seat, and an uncomfortable, never-ending one-on-one began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot for reading and commenting this story.  
> You can find more info about this fic, fashion in the 1920's and about the Prohibition Era on my tumblr: asimplylucia.


	10. Burgundy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound rolled his eyes, thus expressing he didn't know where to start.  
> “Alright. Basically, a revolver has got a revolving barrel – hence his name – and the pistol's chamber is integral with the barrel. Got it?”  
> Wide-eyed, she stared at him, discovering a side of his personality she ignored so far: the man she thought uneducated became pedant when talking about weapons. Sadly, her fascination for him didn't help her understand the difference between a revolver and a pistol.

Apart from the music that sounded useless and annoying in such circumstances, the bedroom was perfectly silent; however, if they had expressed half of the thoughts jostling together in their mind, reproachful voices and shouts would have filled the room. Eager to show him she didn't yield, she had taken the nearest chair to sit next to the phonograph, facing him. Retreating to the bathroom and locking herself in was out of the question. _I'll stay on the battlefield._ The Hound could see she wasn't whining nor lamenting but she accepted the situation with dignity, keeping her chin up. _Have a good look at me: I'm not the girl you frightened anymore. I can hold your gaze when you're glaring at me, now. And you insulted me, so I won't take the first step._

As unreasonable as it was, her determination – Catelyn would have called it stubbornness – delighted her. She had fought with the Hound, a man who left in his wake empty bottles of booze and broken knees, and she had resisted him, even if she knew some of the cruel things he had told her were true. Sansa kept that thought at the back of her mind and folded her arms in a defiant gesture. Later, once he was gone, she would have plenty of time to cry and to ponder on his words, to complain and to regret her obstinacy; right now, she wished to show him she was more than the damsel in distress he said he wanted to rescue.

Sansa had never realized so far the Hound's presence changed her perception of time: most of his visits had seemed very short, due to the revelations, questions and feelings that swamped her during their time together. This one was about to become the longest and the most terrible hour she had experienced, an hour filled with contradictory emotions and shame.

_Perhaps he's going to crack and to tell me he's sorry_ , she mused, getting up to replace a rendition of _'Who's Sorry Now?'_ by another record. Sansa almost smiled at that idea, as the needle grazed the black, uneven surface of the 78 rpm, but the Hound's knuckles were the only things that cracked, the painful noise making her frown. She sat down, her back very straight and she crossed her legs before smoothing her skirt.

Some men would crawl back to her, after an argument, especially if she was as pretty as she was that night, with her blue dress and this red lipstick Edna had lent her. They would look at her long legs and instantly forget the reason of their fight, thus accepting to swallow their masculine pride: the Hound's features tensed even more as his gaze followed a line between the ankle strap of her shoes and the hemline of her dress. Then he turned to give a look at the clock resting on the console table, revealing more of his scars than she probably wanted to see. _You're an idiot_ , she told him in petto, vexed by his attitude.

For lack of a better distraction, she stared at him, taking in his bulky frame, his elbows rooted in the stuffed armrests, his rolled-up sleeves revealing muscled forearms; the dark fabric of his waistcoat and trousers that looked cheaper than the broadcloth of Berdokhovski's three-piece suits. His legs open, he watched her and waited; from time to time, he sighed deeply or he tapped his foot thus showing he was on edge, but he stayed tight-lipped.

When the big hand finally reached the figure twelve, he got on his feet, moved past her and walked around the bed to fetch his overcoat. Sansa quietly observed him, clinging to the idea that he would not cross the threshold without apologizing or at least talking to her. However, defying all she had imagined, he left the room wordlessly and she fell apart.

* * *

Berdokhovski's visit was supposedly a nice change after her quarrel with the Hound. Her rich, gallant customer was always kind to her, showering Sansa with gifts and compliments that he expressed in the most lyrical tone. Berdokhovski was as blond as the Hound's hair was dark, as courteous as the Lannisters' henchman was rude and he had another priceless quality: he never made Sansa nervous. She would even say his visits were good for her self-esteem. She nonetheless didn't expect what he had in mind for that night.

She prepared herself as usual, paying equal attention to her makeup and to her hair, then she waited for his arrival sitting on the edge of the bed and reading her book of religious poetry the Hound had stolen for her. All of a sudden, she heard agitation in the entrance hall, then the typical dialogue between Peitho and Berdokhovski – at first in English, then in Russian – but the footsteps she perceived told her there were more than two people in the staircase. Peitho knocked at her door and Sansa got up to open it; in the door frame, she first saw the madam with her grinning customer. Behind them, two boys dressed as footmen seemed to carry something heavy, if the beads of sweat on their foreheads were any indication.

Sansa greeted Berdokhovski who kissed her hand. That was something she loved about the blond man: he would bend forward, and stop inches of her gloved hand instead of putting a wet kiss on it, like some men who believed a movie with Rudolf Valentino would tell them everything about gallantry. _God, now I feel like a real lady._ Peitho laughed at the sight of her reddening cheeks and patted her shoulder.

"Andrei has got a surprise for you, darling Sansa. My Goodness, I think it's the first time I've seen something like this in a brothel."

With that, Peitho took her leave and Sansa finally saw what the footmen carried: a pair of folding chairs with a table and a huge picnic basket. She stepped aside so that her customer and the two boys could come in.

"Forgive our intrusion, my sweet sister," Berdokhovski said with a hint of foreign accent, "but this was necessary for the surprise I planned." Then he turned to the footmen "Right there," he commanded, pointing at a spot between the console table and the four-poster bed.

One of the footmen gave Sansa sidelong glances, probably imagining what the pair would do as soon as they would shut the door; Berdokhovski noticed her unease and he immediately sent the nosy footman away.

"He'll pay for looking at you like that," he whispered to Sansa as the other boy set the table, retrieving china plates and silverware from the picnic basket.

Sansa stared at Berdokhovski, noticing the crow's-feet at the corner of his eyes and his clenched jaw; she read this detail as a sign of nervousness and wondered why her guest seemed so preoccupied.

"You put yourself out, to plan all this," she commented with an encouraging smile. "May I ask what I have done to deserve such a... kind attention?"

He casually shoved his hands in his pockets, and let out a sigh.

"In fact, I wanted to dine out with you – I had even booked a table in a restaurant – but... Mr Baelish told me it was not possible. Security reasons, he said."

Despite his politeness, there were traces of annoyance in his tone and he seemed to grow impatient at the sight of the footman lining up the flatware. The boy gave them a sheepish smile before finally retreating from the room and Berdokhovski helped Sansa sit down. The folding chairs were surprisingly convenient and the tiny table, once covered by a scorched tablecloth and china, looked like any good restaurant table, except the plates were empty. Are we supposed to play tea parties? She gave him a curious smile and he understood what puzzled her, for he immediately gave her an explanation.

"As I couldn't take you to the restaurant, I ordered some food and the boys will bring it here. They shouldn't be long. In the meanwhile, we can taste that Burgundy," he said, pushing himself from his seat to take a bottle carefully hidden in the wicker picnic basket. "Do you like red wine, Sansa?"

"Well, I was fourteen when the Volstead Act was enacted so... I never drank alcohol."

He arched his eyebrow.

"God, you're so young. When I see you in one of your evening dresses I always forget you're but a child."

Sansa noticed a hint of melancholy in his voice, as if her youth cruelly reminded him of the passing of time. _He isn't that old, though. Or he ages gracefully._ Berdokhovski was slender and took care of his appearance. Even his hands with long fingers had a sort of elegance she seldom saw about men; he poured some red wine in his glass, tasted it, then filled Sansa's. The liquid with its rich color – a dark red, somewhere between maroon and oxblood – fascinated the girl and it took her some time before she raised the glass to her lips. The taste was out of the ordinary for her; it smelled of ripe red berries and black cherries like the ones she ate in the family orchard when she was younger. She repressed a frown at the metallic taste she found on her tongue afterward, then, raising her gaze, she saw Berdokhovski's smile. The tenderness she read in his eyes disturbed her, but the arrival of the footmen with plates protected by dome covers created a diversion. She marveled at the sight of the hors d'oeuvres, like lobster canapés and salmon mousse served with sliced bread, two types of delicacies she had not eaten since her arrival in Baelish's house.

Berdokhovski let her savor the canapés in silence, barely touching his food, and the footmen came again to bring the Waldorf salad before he cleared is throat.

"Do you know why I came to see you?"

"I thought you wanted to see me dance, but I was wrong, obviously," she offered, daintily putting down her fork.

"I- I wanted to make an offer," he replied. "You know Baelish decided – this is such a horrible expression – to sell your virginity in a few months, probably in March, when you'll turn nineteen. A sort of birthday party, I was told, you being both the one they'll celebrate and a piece of the birthday cake."

Sansa's heart skipped a beat, refusing to imagine what it would look like; her guest seemed disgusted and he remained silent for a while.

"You can't stay here," he resolutely added. "I saw the marks on your back once, though I didn't tell you. I've been in places like this one for years and I know how it works. It will be like an auction sale. The one who gives the most money spends the night with you. And then, you'll be one of them, sleeping with a different man every night. You're brave, Sansa. I'm sure you are, but I don't know how long you can resist. I've been thinking and here's my offer: I give Baelish more money than he will earn if you are his employee and you become my mistress."

She sucked in a deep breath.

"You'll leave this place and I'll make sure you'll want for nothing."

His solemn tone showed her he was sincere; his good intentions nevertheless raised dozens of questions.

"Why- Why do you offer-"

She was so confused she couldn't even finish her sentence, but Berdokhovski was able to fill in the blanks.

"I need someone by my side," he answered in a matter-of-fact tone. "And I had a crush on you the day we met. It sounds strange for an old man like me, right?"

"You're not old. How old are you?"

"Take a wild guess."

"Forty," she suggested gingerly, even though she believed he was at least forty-five.

"Fifty-two. Which means you'll get rid of me in a few years. You'll still be young at that time and you'll be rich. You'll marry a man of your age or you'll travel around the world if you want to."

"Why would you die in a few years? You are a healthy man in his early fifties," she protested, sipping her red wine.

"Men die rather young in my family. Heart condition. So, what do you think?"

He locked eyes with her and she felt at a loss; she didn't expect such an offer and she knew it was generous. Somehow, it was a more sensible offer than that of the Hound, who had no money and who didn't know if his daring plan to go overseas could work. What she saw in the pale blue eyes was a genuine affection for her and she wished she could return his feelings.

"I barely know you," she shyly answered. "I didn't even know your first name before I heard Peitho call you Andrei... I don't know what you like, nor what you do for a living."

He sat back in his chair, tilting his blond hair back and closing his eyes for a second.

"Of course. I'm a fool. Andrei Berdokhovski, fifty-two years old, separated. That's why I can't marry you even if I wanted to: my dear wife refuses to divorce. You'll never meet her, though: she lives in Chicago. I love Gothic architecture and classical music. What else do you want to know, my sweet sister?"

He seemingly was more embarrassed by the situation than he expected and he laughed nervously.

"What do you do for a living?" she asked him, forgetting her half-empty plate and looking at him over steepled fingers.

"That's what I would ask in your situation," he said, cracking a smile. "You see, I grew up near Moscow and I had connections in New York. My mother was Jewish and a part of her family emigrated at the end the nineteenth century, so I began to travel from Russia to the United States, doing business. I got married to one of my American customers' daughter, who soon got tired of my wanderlust. I'm a sort of middleman: I introduce people to my customers. I've been doing this for years between Russia and New York until the October Revolution. At that time, I realized I couldn't get along with the Communists, so I left my country."

Sansa was accustomed to his flight of lyricism; listening to him summarizing his life so briefly was new and unexpected. He poured more Burgundy wine in her glass and brushed her hand resting on the table.

"What about you?" he asked. "I know your father was a successful banker, but we never really talk about you."

"Do you know how my parents died?"

"I've heard they died in a car accident."

"It was not an accident. The man who planned their death sent me to this place, so that he could keep a close eye on me. You know who I'm talking about. I think- I think your offer is very generous but I don't want you to get into trouble because of me. He's a dangerous person."

Berdokhovski put his hand on hers in a protective gesture.

"You know, Sansa... My mother used to say falling in love was getting into trouble. If she was right – and I believe my dear mother was always right – I got into trouble the day I met you."

Her eyes widened and she swallowed painfully: the thought that she could unite her destiny with the man sitting across her, combined to her argument with the Hound's two days ago turned the tables. _What should I do? If he gives me a chance to escape this life, should I seize the opportunity and answer yes?_ Berdokhovski saw her turmoil and gently squeezed her hand.

"You probably didn't expect what I told you, Sansa. It will be a huge change in your life so you probably need time to make your decision, but there's something I wanted to ask you. At first, I thought you were shy, but there's more than shyness in your attitude. You always look like you don't allow yourself to flirt. Is it because you already love someone?"

Sansa averted her eyes, surprised by his sagacity. She hesitated between the urge to tell him the truth and the possible consequences – on Berdokhovski's feelings and on her secret.

"I'm- confused," she finally offered. "As you said, I need time to make up my mind."

"Can I expect a positive answer?"

"I need time," she whispered, afraid to hurt him.

The footmen came back, carrying a venison with grand veneur sauce; Sansa went into raptures about the huge dish and its steaming content, before confessing she wasn't hungry anymore. Berdokhovski took some and began to eat, though she noticed his lack of enthusiasm. Once his plate was empty, he tried again.

"Is there something I could do to impress you?" he asked her with a playful smile. "French cuisine doesn't impress you, obviously."

"I'm from the North. In Minnesota, we like good food, but our recipes are much simpler. Maybe... maybe there's something you could do to impress me."

His question had given her an idea. _It's a bit daring, but I've got nothing to lose._

"I have a brother," she went on. "His name is Robb, he lives in Saint-Paul. He has a hydroelectric power-plant out there. I didn't hear from him since my parents died."

"I'm truly sorry," Berdokhovski said, caressing her hand.

_Do it. Ask him. If he really wants to impress you, he'll say yes._

"I don't know if he's alright and he doesn't know where I am. Could you... could you send him a letter?"

Berdokhovski withdrew his hand at once, setting his jaw.

"Peitho had told me you could ask for such a favor," he replied after long seconds. "She told me you're not allowed to write nor to phone to anyone."

"She told you to refuse, if I ever asked," Sansa stated. "The same people who killed my parents, sent me here, now prevent me from coming and going... they forbid me any contact with Robb. If you mean to impress me, send him the letter I'm going to write. You can even read it, if you want: I won't tell Robb where I am because I don't want to endanger him, I just need to reassure my brother."

Before he could protest, she got on her feet and hurried to the desk: she took some paper and a fountain pen, then wrote hastily:

_"My Dearest Robb,_

_You are in my prayers and in my thoughts: I hope you are in good health and I miss you everyday._

_I know you didn't hear from me in weeks, but you have to know I was not allowed to write any letter. A friend of mine will post this message to you. Don't try to find me and please stay in Minnesota, where you are much safer than in New York._

_I still can't tell you where I am but hopefully, I will find a way to leave this place and to start a new life._

_Your loving sister, Sansa."_

Once she was done, she held it out to Berdokhovski whose furrowed brow struck her. He took the letter, but instead of looking at her message, he locked eyes with her.

"If your brother loves you, and I'm sure he does, he'll try to answer this," he pointed out.

"Can I ask you to write down your address at the bottom of my letter, so that he can-"

Berdokhovski pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry," she said, ruing her lack of common sense. "Of course, you don't want to be involved in all this, but perhaps you could ask one of your employees to give his address..."

"That's not the point, Sansa."

He took the fountain pen from her hands and wrote down his address at the bottom of the letter, before looking up at the girl. She had trouble holding his pleading gaze and in the end, she urged him to read the few lines she had written, which he did reluctantly.

"I'm sorry to ask you such a favor, but I have no one to turn to," she explained, as tears welled up in her eyes.

He tried to comfort her the only way he knew, by showering her with compliments and declarations of love.

"I love you even more for asking me to post this letter," he said, taking her hand in his. "You're not only the most beautiful dancer I've ever met, but you have a gentle heart. Do you know what I thought the first time I saw you?"

Sansa shook her head, while dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief; something in Berdokhovski's tone told her he had put aside his usual flight of lyricism to confess his feelings with more sincerity.

"I told myself you were stunning, then, I noticed your gaze," he went on. "You looked very sad, that night, and it took me some time before realizing what your eyes reminded me of. I see that gaze on the morning, sometimes, in the mirror, when I wake up after dreaming of Russia. You and I are exiles, Sansa, though you're not so far from your hometown."

She had never considered the sorrow she felt like a kind of homesickness and she didn't compare her pain to the immigrant's nostalgia, yet she admitted Berdokhovski was somehow right. By train, she could easily reach Minnesota, except she couldn't leave Baelish's house, let alone get on a train. _Are we so similar?_ she asked herself, confused by the thoughtful gaze she saw every time she glanced at him.

"So will you?" she inquired shyly. "Will you post the letter?"

As he nodded, she noticed how his smile revealed wrinkles around his eyes and on his cheeks.

"Have you got children?"

Sansa knew she changed the subject like it was going out of fashion and she bit her bottom lip afterward; Berdokhovski smiled again at her embarrassed expression.

"I had a son," he replied after a while. "He died of consumption when he was fifteen."

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have asked..."

"It was years ago, Sansa and you couldn't imagine he was dead."

Silence stretched between them until the footmen came back, bringing the dessert, an incredible pavlova with pomegranate. Because of Berdokhovski's insistence, Sansa had no choice but to take a piece of meringue.

"Peitho speaks very highly of you," she said after a bite or two of the crisp crust. "You two are good friends, right?"

For lack of an answer, she raised her gaze and noticed his hesitation. Forgetting about the expensive sweet dish he had ordered, he rooted his elbows in the folding table and bored into Sansa's eyes.

"What do you think of Peitho?" he asked her straight out.

"She's brave. She had her share of hardships but I suppose she always make the best of her circumstances."

Ignoring how strong was the bond between her customer and the madam, Sansa had decided not to point out the dubious choices Peitho had made. She donned her best smile, hoping Berdokhovski would agree with her.

"She confided in you," he commented. "She told you about Kiev, her husband, her stillborn son-"

"Peitho said it was a daughter," Sansa cut him off, brow furrowed. "Her husband abandoned her!"

"Did she talk about her trip to South America? Did she mention the part she played in counterintelligence during the war?"

Sansa was at a loss.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she asked, hitting the high note.

"Peitho has a lot of stories to tell about her past. Too many stories for a single person. She's a liar, Sansa. It doesn't mean some parts of her stories never happened, but she lies compulsively."

Sansa let her eyes fall to her lap, trying to process what Berdokhovski had just told her. _It can't be true: I saw her crying and lamenting about her child... but what if he's right about her?_

"How do you know?" she asked him, raising her gaze. "How can you be sure?"

"We were lovers."

Taken aback, Sansa averted her eyes, suddenly too embarrassed to look at him. _Their laughter, their complicity... I should have understood before._

"I thought she could change at that time," he added. "I thought she could forget her past and start a new life. I gave her a shoulder to cry on and she confided in me. She told me her family was well-known in Kiev, she said her flight with an officer had ruined everything... Later on, she told me more stories about her past and I began to have doubts about all this. It was two or three years after the October Revolution, and one of my Russian partners who feared for his life, had just arrived in New York after a stay in London. He's from Kiev, so I asked him about the Kostychyn family who owned big lumber mills. He had never heard about the Kostychyns and he had never met Peitho."

He paused and Sansa gave a blank stare at the red seeds of pomegranate and the crumbs of meringue in her plate.

"Who is she, then?" she asked Berdokhovski.

"I don't know. I'm not sure Kostychyn is her real last name, I'm not even sure she was born in a wealthy family."

"Of course, she is!" Sansa protested. "Her education, her good manners..."

"She grew up in a beautiful house where a rich family lived. It doesn't mean she was the owner's daughter. Such things existed in the Russian Empire before the Revolution: the servants' children lived in their master's house, often playing with the master's children. You know, Peitho is one of the smartest persons I've ever met and she's a quick learner. She speaks five languages and she reads a lot of books, though she never mentions it. She knows how to behave in whatever circumstances and how to gain somebody's confidence. She knows exactly what she wants and what to do to get it."

All of a sudden, the woman Sansa thought she knew more than anyone else in Baelish's house had become a stranger and a manipulator.

"The only thing that is real is the name she chose for herself. You know what 'Peitho' means in Greek? 'Persuasion', I've been told. I guess her moniker is the most sincere confession she's able to give us. That doesn't mean she didn't suffer a lot," Berdokhovski whispered. "You don't become such a silver-tongued, calculative person without going through much torment."

A sudden melancholy shadowed his harmonious features, bringing out his age; he was mentally reliving the roller coaster of his relationship with Peitho.

"What happened when you understood she lied about her past?" she asked shyly, trying to catch his eyes.

"I felt... what you're experiencing right now: betrayal, disillusion. Especially as I finally understood she couldn't change her life. Let's get things straight: she hates this life, but she already spent too much time in this environment to change habits."

_Does it mean she can't be faithful to a man?_ Sansa didn't dare ask and bit her lip.

"Her lies, her behavior... it's a sort of illness. Still, after we broke up, we managed to become good friends, Peitho and I."

"Why telling me all this?" Sansa asked him.

Berdokhovski leaned forward and took her hand.

"I want you to trust me, dear. And in my experience, telling the truth is a good start," he said in an undertone, massaging a spot on the back of her hand, between her thumb and her fingers.

She had no choice but to smile back at him. All of a sudden, she saw him getting on his feet and walking to the phonograph.

"May I?" he asked, pointing at the wooden box where Sansa stored her father's 78 rpm.

She nodded and observed him rummaging through the records. He commented on what he found, saying this song was too modern for him and that one too sad. In the end, when the needle brushed the black surface of the record, she heard the first notes of a waltz. Berdokhovski crossed the room and stopped in front of her.

"Would you be so kind as to dance with me, dear?" he asked her.

Once she stood up, he guided her with a confidence that made her feel safe. _I thought he was acting like a gentleman and I found his manners ridiculous. I was wrong. Maybe his compliments are excessive but he is a gentleman. For real._ She looked up at him, since he was a bit taller than her. There were thin wrinkles on his face, and he had some gray hair on his temples. Anyway, his icy blue eyes exuded a tenderness that struck Sansa. _I could feel good with him. Why couldn't I?_ She soon convinced herself he could make her happy and help her forget the terrible events she had witnessed since her arrival in New York. Yet, there was something amiss, as if a part of her mind wouldn't relax. _What's wrong with me? Why do I need to spoil that moment?_ She couldn't find what was wrong before the song ended.

They went back to their seats; there was a lull in the conversation and a hush had fallen on the room now that the phonograph was silent. _He most likely thought that I would kiss him_ , she mused, watching Berdokhovski pouring more red wine in their glasses. Maybe there were traces of disappointment in the perfunctory yet reassuring smile he gave her. Sansa's gaze fell on the dark liquid in her glass; with the raw light the chandelier provided, the cut crystal stem gleamed, catching the eye. Wordlessly, she raised the glass to her lips and felt the wine warming her throat.

_Burgundy wine._ Her future life could be like this: exotic names and expensive food, creature comforts and a man who, in all likelihood, sincerely cared for her. Once more, she savored the taste of berries she identified while taking another sip of wine and she relished the warmth it gave her – a feeling of well-being that came along with the realization of her own giddiness. However, in the end, she felt a faint but bitter aftertaste, echoing to her confused unease. _What's wrong with me?_ she repeated to herself, scanning the room as if she could find the answer in the showy decoration. Her eyes fell on the leather armchair where the Hound had glared at her for long minutes two days ago.

_The Hound. He's not the Hound._

* * *

 Rose was still in her bedroom when Sansa went back from her morning chores – which consisted in combing Peitho's hair and advising her about the clothes the madam would wear that day – and by the fidgety looks of the blue-eyed woman, she understood the Hound might have talked to her. Sansa carefully closed the door behind her and greeted the cook.

"I suppose you stayed here because you have something to tell me," the girl stated. "Why don't you take a seat?"

Rose didn't need to be asked twice: she walked to the desk and dragged the chair on the rug before seating on it.

"Your... friend came to me," she explained Sansa, with a reproachful tone.

Sansa instantly shivered at the thought that he could have hurt Rose again. _No, please no._

"He didn't say much," she added, pursing her lips and watching Sansa's reaction. "This beast of a man just gave me a parcel for you and he told me you might ask me to send back a message. Anyway..."

Rose walked to the foot of the bed where she had left a bucket and a heap of sheets about to go to the laundry; she retrieved a parcel wrapped in brown paper from the heap of sheets and held it out to Sansa. It looked heavier than a book and its irregular form surprised the girl. The Hound had tied up the parcel with sisal twine in such a way she was forced to use scissors to free the content from its wrapping. She put the package on her desk, took scissors from her sewing basket and methodically cut the strings until the wrapping went loose; then, with a dainty gesture, she moved aside the brown paper and recoiled at once. What she saw was a firearm with a thin barrel and a strange shape – if Sansa was any judge. _My Goodness, what does it mean? Is it a threat?_

"Are you alright?" Rose inquired, suddenly concerned by Sansa's silence. "So what is it? It was damn heavy for such a small parcel."

"It's- it's a gift," Sansa explained, swiveling her head to meet the cook's gaze.

_No need to throw her into a panic. If she learns she's been carrying a weapon..._

"A gift? That's a good one!" Rose laughed. "Somebody should teach him how to gift-wrap presents, then."

_But it is a gift, at least in the Hound's mind._ Sansa noticed there was a note with the gun, whether it be a revolver or a pistol – she couldn't tell the difference. The Hound had written the message on a leaf torn from a notebook and she rolled her eyes at his round, dreadful handwriting with some crossing-out.

_"Little Bird,_

_I lend you my Luger. It's a fine gun and you may need it. I'll sneak in tonight, at 11 o'clock, and I'll show you how to use it. If you're still pissed off and don't want to see me, just tell the old bag."_

There was no signature, but she saw a single word, at the bottom of the leaf: _"Sorry"_. That word, scribbled at the bottom of the page, without any context or explanation, was as close as she would get to an apology.

"Is there a message?" Rose asked, yawning. "I've got some work to do."

"There's no message."

"Are you sure? 'cause he said there would be a message, most likely."

_He thought I would turn him away. No, he convinced himself I would._ The notion puzzled her and she slowly relented when imagining his nervousness. Writing the way he talked, tying up the parcel as if it was some pork loin and frightening Rose with his bad manners revealed how he expected her rejection. A lump in her throat, she turned to Rose but not before hiding the gun under its brown paper.

"Did he say something else?" she asked.

"No. I didn't know you wanted me to make conversation with him."

Rose's cutting remark appalled Sansa and she let the cook go downstairs. She spent the rest of the day thinking of the Hound's strange gift and the note he had addressed her; neither the stories Jo regaled the girls with at lunch nor the costumes she had to sew for a rendition of _'Hot Lips'_ could distract her from the gun tucked into brown paper. After lunch, she read the message for the umpteenth time – though she already knew it by heart – and began to feel restlessness and irritation in equal parts.

_'I lend you my Luger'._ As if she knew what was a Luger! And what did he mean, by 'lend'? Was she so untrustworthy he needed to precise it was a loan and she had to give it back someday? _Does he think I would like to keep something like this?_ His foul language, his disrespectful words towards Rose scandalized her, as well. _He's so rude you'd say he does it on purpose._

As a result of her nervousness, her performance before Doctor Pycelle, that night, was less than satisfactory and the old man suggested he preferred the other girls' services he bought once a week to Sansa's musical talent. Before leaving, he admitted visiting her after Meryn Trant's assault had made him want to see her dance. That notion nauseated Sansa. _And to think he's one of the most popular doctors in Manhattan... He's just a pervert._

Once Pycelle gone, she freshened up then she got ready for bed, in case Peitho or some other girl would knock at her door. _Pretend nothing's wrong. You're just in your bathroom, taking your time._ She slightly opened the bathroom window and crossed the room to sit down on the edge of her bathtub. _Nothing's wrong. I'm not flustered, I'm just waiting for him. It's not as if I have a damn pistol or revolver or whatever it is in the upper drawer of my desk._

A faint clank warned her someone was using the fire escape and she hurried to the window, imagining he was still on the first steps and she could watch him from above, if only the street lamps lit up the back alley. As soon as she opened wide the window, a dark figure loomed in front of her and she repressed a cry, before walking backwards to the tub. The Hound stepped over the window ledge, his long hair half-covered in snow, despite the cap he wore; he shook himself like her father's dogs when they had been swimming in the pond near Winterfell and he wordlessly looked down at the puddle of sleet and mud his Pershing boots had brought in.

"Good evening," she mumbled.

"Good evening, little girl."

His raspy voice made her body limp. _Why do I become so stupid when he's around?_ she chided herself. As he stepped forward, an unpleasant squelch came from his boots and she imagined Rose's expression next morning, when she would see footprints and mud on the tiles. Under the electric light, his face still damp with melted snow, tensed.

"I'm sorry," he said.

The doubts she had had, the irritation she had felt suddenly vanished and she restrained the urge to throw herself in his arms.

"I'm sorry too," she managed to answer. "I behaved like a spoiled child. We should just stop quarreling. You don't come here to argue with me. I'm sorry if I offended you, I never meant you would-"

"I'll never ask to see your back again," he offered, in an apologetic tone.

"I don't really mind. I mean- It surprised me, but-"

"Come, now," he said, crossing the space between them.

His rasping voice soothed her; she didn't move but she let him take her in his arms. Her head found its place against his collarbone, despite the wetness snow had left on his overcoat. _I'm exactly where I wanted to be, she told herself_ , relishing the warmth he provided her. Sansa snaked her arms around his midsection, finding more melted snowflakes when her fingers reached his back.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm a jerk, sometimes. Most of the time."

His remark forced a tiny laugh out of her: her breath must have tickled his neck, for he stiffen a bit, then he let out a sigh of relief. _He's just like me; he doesn't like it when we fight, but he doesn't know how to avoid it either._ She could have stayed in his arms for a while and he didn't seem ready to put an end to this moment but a door slamming somewhere on the landing made her jump. He let go of her so slowly she read it as a proof of his reluctance.

"The old woman gave you the Luger?" he asked her, hands lingering on her waist.

She nodded, ignoring how she was supposed to thank someone for the gift of a weapon. She tilted her head to the door.

"It's in my desk."

"Bring it here, then. We'd better be quiet and stay here. Anyone can see the light under your door if we're in your bedroom. This place is safer."

She helped him remove his coat and she dropped on the console table then she took the gun, while he blocked the door handle with a chair. She flicked off the light in her bedroom and joined him near the bathroom window.

"I'm not sure I can use a revolver," she said shyly, watching him removing a part of the gun – was it the magazine?

The Hound froze and gave her an exasperated look.

"I knew it. That's why I gave you a pistol."

"How am I supposed to know the difference?" she protested, slightly vexed.

He rolled his eyes, thus expressing he didn't know where to start.

"Alright. Basically, a revolver has got a revolving barrel – hence his name – and the pistol's chamber is integral with the barrel. Got it?"

Wide-eyed, she stared at him, discovering a side of his personality she ignored so far: the man she thought uneducated became pedant when talking about weapons. Sadly, her fascination for him didn't help her understand the difference between a revolver and a pistol.

"See that stupid gesture actors make when they want to impress the audience, in movies? When the cylinder spins, that's a fucking revolver. And when the guy just shoots at his enemy because he has no time to lose, that's a pistol."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she commented a bit stiffly. "Not everyone soldiered in the artillery."

"I wasn't in the artillery," he said, his back stiffening as if she had insulted him. "I was in the infantry. I was a marksman."

"You become touchy, when it comes to guns," she observed, repressing a chuckle. "The comparison with the movies was quite clear, though. You'd make a good teacher, if pupils had to learn the difference between a revolver and a pistol. Where did you get that pistol, by the way?"

"I brought it back from Europe. Took it from a German officer. Assuming somebody finds you with this gun, they'll never know where it comes from."

"Did you have the right to do that? To bring it back?" she asked suspiciously.

"Everyone did that, Little Bird. All the French soldiers I met intended to bring back their pistol as a souvenir."

Sansa frowned.

"I thought they had to lay down their arms after demobilization."

A mischievous half-smile twitched his lips.

"Of course. And Santa Claus will bring you a pretty doll for Christmas if you're a nice little girl. No one gave a fuck if we brought back guns, and now you should be glad to have a Parabellum to protect yourself. It's a fine weapon."

"It's heavy."

"Mine is heavier," he rasped, retrieving his pistol from his shoulder holster and holding it out to her. "See?"

Now that the Hound's pistol rested in her palm, she could feel its weight and notice the differences between the two weapons. In her eyes, the Hound's dark handgun with its rather thick barrel and simpler design looked more modern than the Luger he had given her.

"Why is the barrel of the Luger so thin? Its shape is quite strange..."

"German arms manufacturers must love weird-looking guns," he sighed, putting his pistol back in his shoulder holster. "I don't know, Little Bird. So much for that... Take the Luger in your hands. Good. Stretch your arm, as if you were aiming at someone... No, not this way..."

Shaking his head, he placed himself behind her to show her what to do; he corrected her position, telling Sansa she had to relax her shoulders, then he put his hands on her hips.

"Legs slightly open," he rasped in her ear, his chest flush against her back. "You can't aim at someone if you stay like that. That's better."

She found it difficult to focus on his advice as he was so close. His smell and his hands going from her arms to her hips in order to show her how to hold the gun gave Sansa too many distractions.

"You'll have to do it again and to train everyday, so it becomes natural," he warned her. "You won't have anytime to think about what you're doing the day you'll need a gun. I will tell you how to load the magazine, now."

The Hound resumed his instructions, taking the pistol from her hands; he showed her the magazine, the safety, then he taught her how to disassemble the gun.

"I'll grease it for you, if you want," he suggested.

The long look he gave her at that moment made his offer sound scandalous. _Or improper. Even indecent._ She blushed and thus stirred something inside him, for a spark appeared in his gray eyes.

"So where are you going to keep the gun?" he rasped, catching her off-guard.

Sansa had never thought of a hiding place for the Luger; she slightly shrugged and raised her gaze to him, convinced he already knew the answer.

"It's a pity you can't keep it in your garter," he whispered, nudging at her. "I heard some women do that. The Little Bird keeping something that comes from me between her thighs... I like this idea, but the Luger is too big, I guess."

He stared at her shamelessly and enjoyed her reddening cheeks as if he fed on her embarrassment.

"Alright," he sighed after a while. "The phonograph. You always stand by it when you dance, so if a customer becomes too bold, you walk to the phonograph and you take the gun you keep from the nearest drawer."

They came back to her bedroom, the only lighting from the bedside lamp, and they hid the Luger in the drawer of the table on which Eddard's phonograph had been put. Time was flying and Sansa realized she had to ask him the question that haunted her since days: there was no way around this.

"Are you going to stay?" she shyly inquired.

After sleepless nights, she had imagined every situation: the Hound staying with or against her will, the Hound confessing how much he loved her, or taking what he wanted without asking. In her feverish imagination, he always stayed. Now that he was here for real, uncertainty began to creep over her. _What if Joffrey needs him somewhere else? What if he simply doesn't want to stay?_

He stared at her, hesitating. After a few seconds, she clearly saw in his eyes the fight between what he wanted and what caution commanded him. _No, please don't say you have to go._

"They don't pay me to stay out all night, Little Bird. Besides, I'm supposed to leave early tomorrow. Business in New Jersey."

He sounded so sorry she convinced herself something would have happened between them had he stayed.

"Didn't think you wanted me to stick around," he offered, glancing at her.

Sansa wondered if he was telling a lie to get at the truth or if he was completely at a loss when it came to relationships. In the end, she decided sincerity was her best option.

"I need you more than they do."

When he stared at her, she read disbelief in his gray eyes. _He wasn't putting on an act, he doesn't understand what's going on._ The realization she was more experienced than him despite her young age burdened her with a responsibility she didn't expect. He peeked at the clock and let out a deep sigh.

"I've got to go within an hour," he rasped, sitting in the armchair.

The urge to throw herself in his arms came back with the confirmation he wouldn't spend the night lying next to her. She bit her lip, a bad habit he probably found attractive for he motioned her to him. She gingerly sat on his knees.

"It's alright," he said, pulling her close until she rested across his lap.

_No make-up, no more rouged lips, no more perfumes when he's here_ , she told herself as a mental note. _Father would have agreed with him. And it's a form of resistance against what Baelish wants me to become._ The thought that Eddard Stark would approve of the Hound's opinion on cosmetics delighted her and she saw him frown at her sudden cheerfulness. Soon she remembered they didn't have much time and there were important matters to discuss.

"I don't know if you noticed it the last time you came, but there's a man who keeps a close eye on who's coming and going, these past few days," she warned him, regaining her composure. "At first, I thought there were more than one person, guarding Baelish's house, but I'm pretty sure the man I saw works alone."

"The Little Bird has been spying?" he said, amused.

"I thought it could help you. And I also wanted to do something for Evie. I wanted to see if we could sneak out. It's more difficult than I thought, so I'll need your help."

He swallowed hard, holding her gaze even if her plea seemingly annoyed him.

"Your escape is my priority," he explained, sighing. "Suppose Evie escapes this place... Baelish will harden the surveillance and we'll be fucked up. That's how it works. I know you like Evie but don't ask me to save both of you."

"Baelish will sell the baby. He'll give Evie's child to some wealthy family. I can't accept it."

Her tone was sad rather than angry. Disappointed, she let her eyes fall on her lap, then on his sleeve. As he held her like a precious thing he didn't want to let go of, his left arm rested against the dark-blue fabric of her dressing-gown and the rolled-up sleeve showed his forearm, scarred and even bearing burn marks; they were the traces of a life spent in the shadowy world she had been propelled into weeks ago. No matter how hard he tried to protect her from the monsters who ruled that world, there was hardships she couldn't avoid, like the anguish she felt every time she thought of Evie. Sansa hoped she would escape the brothel soon, 'without a scratch', as the Hound had put it once, but she wouldn't leave Baelish's house without a few invisible scars, Evie's fate being one of them.

Sansa rested her head against his chest and took his big hand in hers in a childish gesture. His skin was thicker than hers, dry by places and she noticed faint scars. Slowly, she traced the fingers, one by one, following the bones, caressing the joints.

_Please let yourself go. Don't protest, don't laugh at me. You need to get used to this._ As if he listened to her silent prayer, he didn't move and barely suppressed a shudder when her fingertips traced the veins on the back of his hand. Sansa went on with the other side, caressing the hard skin on the phalanges and exploring the palm where the lines and the scars interlaced.

"Am I your teddy bear, or something?"

He wasn't as relaxed as his words conveyed: he did his best to conceal the remains of uneasiness in his tone, but his joke didn't fool Sansa. She shifted to level her eyes with him, searching the apprehension in the gray irises with a mix of curiosity and amusement. _It feels strange, right? But you'll get used to it._

This hand had only received blows and hit people; he had clenched his fist to fight back or to hold the money he had made renting his arms and his strength to the Lannisters. This big hand she held in hers belonged to an expert in violence. _Things can change._ She brushed the palm and the inner side of his wrist, eliciting a chuckle; her touch tickled him, the sensation waking up his playful side. He caught hold of her hands suddenly and when she looked at him, she briefly saw the child he once was, before the scars. _Before everything ran out of control._ As he let go of her wrists, she took his hand again and they stayed for a while like this, their fingers intertwined.

"Sandor," she said, all of a sudden.

"What?" he rasped, more surprised than he would ever admit he was. Perhaps it was the second time she called him.

"Nothing. I'm just getting used to your first name."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious to know what the Luger pistol look like or what kind of handgun Sandor carries in this fic, you can find more info on my tumblr: asimplylucia.


	11. Bloodhound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A Bloodhound for the lady, and whiskey for me. Top shelf," Tyrion Lannister said, looking up at the jaded barman. "Do you know what is a Bloodhound, Sansa?"  
> "Should I?"  
> The peculiar name made her shiver, but she steeled herself instantly. Crossing her arms about her chest, she observed Tyrion climbing on the nearest stool, then turning to her with the exaggerated, ironic smile that annoyed everyone – the smile that inevitably maddened Cersei. What does he mean?  
> "I suppose it's a sort of liquor," she replied as he arched his eyebrow, his mocking expression bringing out his fresh scars.  
> "You're a darling. A Bloodhound is a gin-based cocktail. Sweet vermouth, dry vermouth, gin and crushed strawberries. Strong, violent, somewhat bitter but becoming very... sentimental in the end."  
> He's not talking about a cocktail anymore, she realized, biting her lip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for foul language, violence and non con.

Greeting everyone so that nobody could miss his swaggering gaze and his new checkered overcoat whose collar he had popped in a sudden wish to seem more mysterious, Marillion crossed the meeting hall, seemingly enjoying how Jo whistled at him.

"You know how he got his fancy clothes?" Meg asked Sansa in an undertone. "People say he's a lounge lizard. He seduces rich women and takes advantage of them. He's so crafty."

Sansa rolled her eyes as discretely as she could in the crowded room. Craftiness was not the first thing the smug piano player reminded her of. He's self-important. _He thinks nobody can resist him and he's over-confident about his musical skills. That's the kind of person he is._

The vain musician shot Sansa his best seductive look as he sat down behind his piano. _Does he realize I'm not interested in him? Is that why he stares at me?_ The rest of Marillion's band was already tuning their instruments, laughing and chatting about the girls.

The five men who played with Marillion looked like street musicians, like people who had been living hand to mouth for years and still had trouble making ends meet. A sort of disbelief emanated from the trumpet player, for instance, as if the man – a short-legged, red-haired man in his thirties – couldn't realize how lucky he was to have a roof over his head while playing; his cheerful smile moved Sansa deeply and she thought people like him deserved much more attention than the arrogant Marillion.

The rehearsal began in the meeting hall, despite the comings and goings of four men who replaced the old furniture by small tables and chairs; Baelish had decided he wanted the place to look like the _Cotton Club_ , not like a cheap theater. Sansa tried to ignore the feeling of annoyance and disgust that took hold of her every time she saw some of the dance acts and pantomimes the girls had been working on. Peitho had said there had to be some risqué acts, that it was why half the customers still came in Baelish's house.

"But you're the other reason why they come," she had coaxed Sansa. "Your songs dramatically raise the standard."

When the girl saw Viola half-naked at the end of her dance act, she understood what Peitho meant; after such an amount of flesh on display, it wasn't very difficult to raise the level and to answer the customers' expectations.

"Sansa!" Marillion called after a while, as Viola left the stage, reddening and perspiring. "Your turn, now."

Marillion's musicians gave her an encouraging smile, the trumpet player nodding in approval while she moved past him. She smiled back at them, didn't pay attention to Marillion's lustful gaze, and she climbed the three steps leading to the stage with a determined look. Marillion's laughter infuriated Sansa but she focused instead, on the item that disturbed her because it was new and she didn't really know how to use it: a microphone.

Baelish had said the microphone would make a difference between them and the petty shows some brothels had decided to organize, following Baelish's example. Like the new furniture in the meeting hall, it was the key to make their customers feel comfortable – and to retain them. She shyly walked to the free-standing microphone and observed it: the long silvery straight stand and the egg-shaped device. Sansa had never used something like this before. The trumpet player noticed it and asked her if she needed help but Marillion preempted him. Leaping on stage as if it was a matter of life or death, the smug musician grinned at her.

"Microphones are like men, sweet girl: they don't bite."

He took advantage of the situation by wrapping his arm around her waist.

"Alright, I got it," she protested, glaring at him.

"You sing like you usually do: just come closer. Your pretty mouth has to be next to the microphone, that's all."

"Let go off me," she insisted, looking daggers at him.

Marillion complied and opened his arms wide in an innocent gesture, visibly surprised by her reaction, then he let his eyes fall to the floor.

"Come on, girl, you can do it. Your voice is golden. Even your shoes are golden," he commented, giving an appreciative look at her shiny high-heeled Mary Janes. "When you climbed the stairs, I noticed the soles were golden."

"So what?" she said, hitting the high note. "Can't we just practice like we were supposed to?"

"I was thinking of another sort of practice," he laughed.

Appalled, she shook her head, as the musicians whistled.

"Stop bothering the girl, you stupid prick!" one of the men told him, chuckling all the same.

"We're late!" Peitho shouted. "Hurry up, Marillion!"

Sansa had never been so happy to hear Peitho yelling at someone and she cracked a smile. Marillion reluctantly left the stage and sat back behind his upright piano, regaining his outward seriousness. Sansa's first try with the microphone wasn't satisfactory, but she soon understood what she had to do to make good use of the device. She didn't know how her voice sounded so far and the first songs she sang that day were like a discovery.

"Good!" Peitho said in the end. "Very good. Petyr will be pleased. Whose turn is it, now?"

Relief flooded Sansa as she retreated from the stage. Marillion began to play a tune she didn't know when she walked past the musicians.

"What is it?" the drummer mumbled.

"That tune?" Marillion replied, arching his eyebrow. His false modesty irked Sansa. "I don't know, it just popped in my head... I'm going to call it _'The Girl Who's Got Gold On The Soles Of Her Shoes'_."

_He's so stupid I shouldn't even listen to him._ Once among the other girls, she gave a look at the last part of the rehearsal, while Viola flirted with Marillion. _They make a great couple_ , she mused, watching the black-haired girl leaning in to whisper something in the piano player's ear. Edna chided her for disturbing the musicians and, in the end, Viola left the meeting hall, cut to the quick.

"She's pathetic," Edna observed, as Viola stormed out. "Do you know why Marillion was late?"

Sansa shook her head. The tall brunette with bobbed hair gave her an inquiring look, seemingly wavering. Could she tell Sansa the naked truth or should she keep her thoughts for herself? After a few seconds, Edna wrapped a protective arm around Sansa's shoulders.

"Viola was... keeping him company," she said under her breath, watching Sansa's reaction.

"You mean she was sleeping with him?" Sansa asked in disbelief. "How did he sneak in?"

Suddenly, Marillion deserved all her attention: if he ever knew a way to come in the brothel without being noticed, he was indeed crafty.

"She wasn't 'sleeping with him', as you put it. He arrived a few minutes before entering the meeting hall and I guess they found some dark corner. You didn't notice Viola was wiping her mouth when she came in?"

_This is gross._ Sansa rolled her eyes, exhaling all the irritation and distaste she felt. There would be another show that night and more customers to come until Christmas. Sandor had been clear about that: they wouldn't escape before Christmas. In all likelihood, he needed a few more weeks to find enough money for their flight. _The first Christmas without my parents. Without Robb._ Everyday, she borrowed and thumbed through the newspapers, her heart beating wildly in her chest, clutching to the hope that her brother was safe. She never found his name in the New York Times. Her thoughts went back to Berdokhovski and to the letter she had given him. _Did he post the message? Did Robb receive it? I wish I had news from him. Anything, just a few reassuring words telling me he's fine._ Since her Russian customer's last visit, Sansa expected news from Saint-Paul and her anxiousness increased with each passing day.

Baelish appeared in the door frame, his slender and rather short silhouette dwarfed by the dimensions of the meeting hall.

"Ladies," he said, grinning. "You'd better surpass your usual level tonight. We'll have an important guest."

The girls who were not on stage rushed towards the dark-haired man, asking who was coming and why it was so determining; one cut off the other, to Baelish's great amusement. Their boss stubbornly refused to say who was coming to watch the show; he teased the girls, apparently taking a perverse pleasure in keeping the guest's identity secret. No matter how the girls who surrounded him stamped their feet and begged him, he remained silent.

At some point, he raised his gaze and noticed Sansa's unease. She stayed in the background, paying attention to Baelish's attitude and trying to guess who he expected to welcome that night. _If Joffrey shows up, I'd rather leap into the void. I don't want to see him. And he'll probably seize the opportunity to hurt me again._

Despite the fear numbing her senses, she felt like Baelish wouldn't be that relaxed if Joffrey planned to come and watch the show. A lump in her throat, she looked back at Baelish and noticed that, once more, he ignored the girls' questions to stare at her. The girls bothered him with their pleading eyes and their high-pitched voices; he finally gestured with impatience, as if they were flies he wanted to get rid of, before making his way through the simpering girls.

"A word, Sansa. In my office."

She nodded politely and followed the dark-haired man out of the meeting hall, mentally going over all the influential men she had met since her arrival in New York. Among them, who could choose to spend his night in a place like this one? A few weeks ago, she still believed respectable men didn't visit such places, and she would have shrugged off the question. Baelish shut the door behind him and motioned her to a seat while he walked to his armchair.

"You're upset," he stated. "What's wrong?"

At first, she didn't reply out of wariness. She let her eyes fall away, chewing her lip, but even though she didn't look at him, she sensed Baelish's gaze on her and guessed he was leaning forward on his desk.

"What happened? Are you not happy here?" he insisted, his last words making her purse her lips.

Jumping to his feet, he walked around his desk and planted himself in front of her. She noticed his black and off-white spectator shoes. _Flamboyant and tasteless_ , she thought, staring at the black leather on the toe.

"Who's coming tonight?" she asked, suddenly looking up at him.

As she met his eyes, she saw how her question surprised him. He briefly gaped, then he wavered, observing her.

"I can't tell you who's coming, Sansa."

"Is Joffrey Baratheon coming tonight?" she inquired. He shook his head and relief washed over her. "Are you sure? I mean... whose visit could be more important? We already had Congressmen and influential people..."

"Joffrey has a meeting tonight, so I'm sure he won't come. However, his uncle said he's coming, so we can say the Lannisters will grace us with their presence. See? I didn't want to tell you who's our special guest, but you undermine my resolution. I'm too kind with you."

A smug smile on his lips, he let his eyes roam over her, taking in the cardigan she wore over her silken blouse, her gray woolen skirt she demurely smoothed to make sure he couldn't see her knees.

"Is Jaime Lannister coming?" she asked.

"No, dear, I'm talking about Joffrey's other uncle. Tyrion."

Her eyes widened and she frowned deeply, provoking Baelish's mirth.

"Tyrion has a taste for brothels, Sansa," he explained her, still chuckling. "That's the way he is. I wouldn't be surprised if he decided to buy your first night."

Eyes downcast, she waited, wishing Baelish would have some work to do and send her away. The prospect of losing her virginity to Tyrion Lannister was shocking. _Sickening_ , she told herself. _His family murdered my parents. And he's a dwarf._ Catelyn would have chided her for being so cruel to a man who suffered from his appearance, but Catelyn didn't know what the man could do to her little girl. Sansa repressed a shudder. _I need Sandor here. I need him to take me out of this place._

"See," Baelish taunted her. "You've got nothing to be afraid of. Tyrion Lannister just comes to watch you – and he'll probably end up upstairs with two of your companions. You should be proud to bring customers such as Tyrion Lannister in my house. You have more success with these songs you sing than I ever thought."

He paused and she realized something was amiss; Baelish positioned himself behind her, hands gripping the back of her seat. _Don't move_ , she urged herself. _Keep your back straight and don't show him you're afraid._ She nevertheless had good reasons to be scared when Baelish bent forward until she felt his breathing against her cheek.

"Lothor Brune told me the strangest story," he whispered, sending shivers down her spine. "He said he found you on the front steps, with the mute. What were you doing outside?"

She cocked her head to the side, looking at him.

"We were taking some fresh air," she offered.

"That's a big lie for a pretty little thing like you. Spare me, Sansa. You were trying to escape. With Evie, for that matter. I won't let the goose that laid the golden egg go, my dear."

She wondered if he was referring to Evie or to herself; it didn't make a big difference, though.

"Let's get things straight, Sansa. You don't escape. You don't help anyone escape, or you'll be sorry for that."

"What would you do to me?" she heard herself ask him.

The hint of provocation Baelish detected in her voice infuriated him and he brusquely stood up, glaring at her.

"I don't intend to flog you until you bleed or to hurt you the way your former fiancé did. It would be stupid to leave marks on your flawless skin." He crossed his arms tightly, looking down at the girl. "However, after almost two years running shoulders with the Starks, I finally figured out what your biggest weaknesses are. Your father couldn't stand the idea of failing his duty. Your dear mother had a gentle heart: she was hurt whenever she saw people suffering. You most likely inherited both defects and you consider helping this poor Evie is your duty. What if I prevent you from doing your duty and make Evie suffer instead of punishing you? I could send her to another brothel where you won't be able help her and where people would not treat her kindly."

Sansa hugged herself, seeking a derisory comfort in the warm mohair of her cardigan. _I just wanted to help Evie escape, how could I imagine things would turn this way?_ Tears pricked her eyes.

"If you want your friend to stay by your side, you know what you have to do: sing and smile pretty," Baelish added coldly.

He walked to his armchair behind his desk and when he sat down with a sigh she thought their conversation was over. She was wrong. While shifting on her seat, ready to get up and to leave the office she hated so much, she heard his voice again.

"This man, Berdokhovski... He's been visiting you again, I was told."

She raised her eyes and watched him carefully: the handsome features seemed relaxed, as if savoring her hesitation and his pointed beard gave him a devilish look. As she usually did when his gaze made her skin crawl, Sansa remained silent.

"According to Peitho, he's fond of you," Baelish went on. "No, wait. That's not some big secret Peitho discovered. Anyone who noticed his frequent visits here can see he has a crush on you. He could make an offer soon. Would you be happy if he made an offer?"

"I don't know," she muttered.

"Let's make a deal, Sansa. We both know the mute girl's child will grow up in a wealthy and loving family I chose. You can't do anything about it. However, there's something you can do for your dear Evie: keep her safe in this house after the baby is gone. A decent room, hand-picked customers... If you really want to help her, stop thinking of leaving this place. Dance, sing, smile for your customers. Make sure they'll splash out when the time comes. Do whatever you want: sit on their knees, let them kiss you... I don't care. Maybe I'll think of giving Evie a nice bedroom if you're a good girl."

The acid taste of bile hit the back of her throat. _Berdokhovski said it would be like an auction sale. He was right. Baelish wants me to seduce Tyrion Lannister to raise the stakes._ She didn't know how much Berdokhovski was ready to put on the table to be sure she would become his mistress and she was at a loss concerning the liquid assets Tyrion Lannister could gather. As a member of the wealthiest family in town, whose money partly came from bootlegging, Tyrion Lannister was a competitor Berdokhovski should not underestimate. _And he's stubborn: competition can be fierce if he ever decides he wants me._

All this seemed completely crazy. _I just wanted to visit New York_ , she thought, as a tear rolled down her cheek. _I just wanted to visit New York, how is it possible that things got out of hand?_

"Go upstairs, now," Baelish told her. "Tonight's show is important if you're still eager to help Evie."

* * *

Cologne hardly hid the odor of stale cigarettes and alcohol in the meeting hall. Baelish had demanded Sansa's presence among the viewers before the show began, so that he could introduce her to wealthy clients he knew; thus, she stood between the small tables and waited, a strained smile plastered on her face, as men leered at her. Some tried to make conversation, others just looked hard at the girl, who felt as blue as the shiny sleeveless dress that covered her lithe form. Long white gloves, a blue headband with seed-beads and matching shoes completed her outfit.

A customer walked past her and brushed her arm; Sansa instinctively stepped aside and mumbled her apologies, but when she looked at him out of curiosity, she noticed his cruel smile. _He's watching my reaction: he wants to know if he can go any further._

She swept the room until she found Lothor Brune. His stocky figure was barely visible in the darkest corner of the meeting hall, next to the new counter where two barmen served whiskey and gin-based cocktails. Unlike the customers and the barmen who wore an uniform, Brune had kept his everyday clothes: brownish velvet trousers and waistcoat over a white shirt. He looked like a huntsman, especially when he scanned the room, clenching his square jaw. Despite his stern expression, the man Baelish had hired to keep a close eye on the girls didn't miss anything; he crossed the meeting hall as soon as he recognized fear in the girl's eyes.

"What's wrong, Miss?" he asked in an undertone.

"Stay with me, will you? The man who's sitting behind us, he..."

"I saw him. Nothing serious, though. I'll stay here until Mr Baelish arrives with his guest."

A table for two front-and-center to the stage had been saved for Tyrion Lannister and the other customers exchanged conspiratorial glances whenever they looked at it. Sansa sighed deeply as she let her eyes wander on the scorched tablecloth and the red carnations in their crystal vase. _I shouldn't look at Tyrion Lannister when I'll sing, or I'll probably faint._

Nervous expectation made her throat dry and sent shivers down her spine every time someone crossed the threshold of the meeting hall, Lothor Brune's quiet presence being cold comfort. She finally spotted Baelish in the doorway and although she couldn't see Tyrion Lannister, hidden by the other customers, the hush falling on the room confirmed he was here. Lothor Brune wordlessly retreated to the corner where he would spend the night, as Baelish and Tyrion Lannister made their way through the small tables.

_The Imp._ His blond hair partly hiding his forehead, Joffrey's uncle greeted her. She immediately noticed the deep scars across his face. _What happened to his nose?_ Even if she admonished herself for staring, even if she quickly looked at him straight in the eyes, he saw her slight frown and he repressed a chuckle. All around them customers whispered and Sansa convinced herself the girls peeping out through the curtains did the same. Baelish talked but she couldn't hear his words, focused on the consequences that night could have for her.

"Sansa?" Baelish insisted, a bit louder this time. "It's time, girl, go on stage."

She politely nodded and hurried to the stage, careless of the customers' roaring laughter, then she positioned herself on the foreground while the girls prepared their dance act behind the velvet curtain. As the band began to play, Sansa squinted against the spotlight and brushed the stand straight. Her first song was _'What I'll do'_ , by Irving Berlin. The lyrics strangely resonated in the girl's mind.

_What'll I do_

_When you are far away_

_And I am blue_

_What'll I do?_

Her misty blue eyes avoided the front-and-center table, as she thought of the scarred ugly man who wanted to escape with her.

_When I'm alone_

_With only dreams of you_

_That won't come true_

_What'll I do?_

_I wish he could be here. I wish he would protect me. I miss him._ The reverential silence in the meeting hall was her best reward; all eyes were on her and she couldn't help looking at the large door, wishing the Hound would show up before the end of her song, and finally half expecting him to appear on the threshold because she wanted it so madly. Edna or Peitho would later blame her because she wasn't focused on the song, but Sansa, absorbed by her fervor, didn't care: Irving Berlin's music filled her ears and her heart.

A round of applause broke the spell: the huge figure of Sandor Clegane was nowhere to be found among the customers. At the same time, the clapping made her breathe easier. Perhaps daydream wasn't that terrible when singing a romantic ballad. Sansa took a bow at the front of the stage before slipping away in the wings. The rest of the opening act was rather successful. Sansa's rendition of _'The Sheik of Araby'_ filled the audience with enthusiasm just before the intermission. She obliged Baelish by pointing at Tyrion Lannister during the song, a questionable choice that made the customers laugh. Joffrey's uncle himself chuckled before drowning his embarrassment in a glass of whiskey.

  _He's the Sheik of Araby,_  


_As you can plainly see_

_At night when I'm asleep_

_Into my tent he'll creep_

In the end, Sansa wasn't sure the comparison flattered or delighted Tyrion Lannister; she even felt sorry for him, when she noticed the mocking of the other customers. It was already too late and the best she could do was explain the man why she had pointed at him in this way, if she ever had a chance. The girls who danced behind her during the song, jumped for joy when the band stopped playing, contrasting with Sansa's own bitterness.

During the intermission, as Baelish's employees chatted and flirted with the customers, she felt so depressed by the Hound's absence, she only wanted to think of her flight. She talked for a while with some wealthy customers, under Lothor Brune's watchful gaze, but as soon as she saw him walking away – because Baelish needed him elsewhere – she took her leave and sneaked out.

Once the heavy door closed, the entrance hall's silence struck her. Head bouncing against the wooden panel as she leaned back, Sansa relished the quietness for a few seconds before remembering why she had come there. _Lothor Brune is in the meeting hall. I'm alone and they're so busy nobody will notice my absence. That's it, I should leave during the intermission of a show, while Baelish and Peitho are talking with the customers. Nobody will pay attention._

Stepping forward, she cautiously glanced in the direction of Baelish's office, but she couldn't see light under the door: the realization raise a smile on her lips. _The entrance door, now. Assuming we try to escape during one of the next shows, it will be easy if Sandor is waiting for me outside_ , she told herself, impressed by her own boldness.

Now that she had left the warm atmosphere of the meeting hall, she shivered in her flimsy white dress. _If I can escape, a bad cold will be the least of my worries._ Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she walked to the front door, holding the hem of her dress. Behind, the slamming of a door startled her.

"Hey, Sansa!" a masculine voice called behind her.

She froze, wondering how she could explain her presence in the entrance hall, a bit too close from the main door, twice in a week. Taking a sharp intake of breath, she turned around and smiled to the intruder, though she doubted he could see her face in the dim light. The man slowly walked to her and as he moved past the wall lamp – an eccentric lamp in the shape of a wine grape – she recognized Marillion. _It's alright. Just walk and get back to the meeting hall._

"What were you doing?" he drawled.

_Oh my God, he's drunk._ The arrogant piano player had been drinking more than he should have, indeed, if his reddish face and his unsteady walk were any indication. He smirked, watching the abrupt rise and fall of her chest.

"I... needed to be alone. To focus on my next song."

"I remember," he said, gesturing and finally pointing at Sansa. " _'Do It Again'_ , that's a fine song. Romantic, and all that."

"No, it's not _'Do It Again'_ ," she replied curtly, moving past the young man.

Before she could avoid him, Marillion grabbed her waist and pulled her close.

"Very romantic," he added, his slurred tone confirming his inebriation.

"Leave me be," she protested, wriggling. "I have to go back-"

"No, you're not going anywhere."

Marillion's strength was surprising for a man of average height and built, who had had his fill of booze. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't escape his embrace. Panic overwhelmed her when she felt his wormy lips on her cheeks.

"Help!" she cried, thrashing about.

"Forget about that," he spat, dragging her across the hall. "They're too busy to hear you."

Tears pricked her eyes as she flailed, elbowing him forcefully. She heard him curse under his breath and he almost threw her on a couch. At that moment, the slamming of the meeting hall door gave her some hope and she tried to shout before feeling Marillion's hand on her mouth. A couple was whispering and as Sansa listened to them laughing by the staircase, she understood they were looking for what Edna called a dark corner.

"Is everything alright?" the man's voice nevertheless asked.

Sansa flailed even more, but Marillion held her tightly.

"We're fine," the musician retorted, "as long as we can have some privacy."

Footsteps echoed in the staircase, warning the girl she had just lost her chance to escape her assailant. He began to kiss and lick her face and neck, pressing his body against hers despite her resistance. Careless of her protestations now that they were alone, he removed his hand from her mouth and tried to hike up her skirt, ruing the layers of tulle that complicated his task.

"Let go of me," she begged, feeling his hand on her bare knee.

"No, darling. You wanted this. I saw your little game. I saw how you looked at me."

"I don't want-"

"Of course, you wanted all this."

Straddling Sansa to prevent her from going away, he got rid of his jacket, then he fumbled with suspenders. _He can't balance well_ , she told herself, clutching to the idea he had drunk too much; she shoved him violently.

Marillion fell flat on his back, shouting and cursing as she ran to the meeting hall. Before she could reach the crowded room, the door slammed open and she saw a tall figure against the light. For a fleeting moment, she believed it was Sandor, but as soon as her eyes adjusted themselves to the light of the meeting hall, she identified Lothor Brune and her heart sank. Behind him, a dumbfounded Baelish appeared in the doorway.

"He tried..." she told them, "Marillion tried-"

Brune took in her disheveled look, her tears and pushed her aside before throwing himself on Marillion. After closing the door, Baelish seized her upper arms, not unkindly, but any contact made her sick: she recoiled.

"I swear I didn't-" she whispered, unable to explain herself.

For a change, Baelish didn't insist, seemingly understanding what had happened. Sansa heard Marillion squeal; turning her back to the man who had tried to assault her, she squeezed her eyes shut with a pained expression, eager to forget her dreadful night.

"The kid had his fly unbuttoned,"Lothor Brune growled, eliciting a gasp from Marillion. "You should fire him, Mr Baelish. For what it's worth..."

"Kick him out," Baelish coldly answered, still staring at Sansa.

"I'm fine," she said, fighting back tears. "Just give me a moment, and I'll go back on stage."

Behind her, Lothor Brune dragged Marillion on the inlaid tiles of the entrance hall and threw him out. She still waited for Baelish's answer, hoping his frown was directed at Marillion and not at her, when the door opened again. Peitho gaped at the sight of her tangled hair while the trumpet player who accompanied the madam glanced at Baelish.

"What happened?" Peitho almost shouted.

"Later, dear. Bring her to her room, help her change clothes and be ready in ten minutes. We'll have a longer intermission."

Then he turned to the musician.

"Do you know where I can find another piano player?"

* * *

Despite a late beginning and a few wrong notes coming from the piano – a musician Lothor Brune had found in the nearest restaurant had agreed on replacing Marillion without prior notice – the audience applauded the last part of the show. Sansa did her best to conceal her emotions; Tyrion Lannister stared at her every time he got a chance and she felt terribly ill-at-ease. He had met her before, he was a familiar face of her past and for some reason she couldn't explain, it seemed to Sansa her mortification would be even worse if someone who had met her older self learned of her aggression.

The audience finally retreated, some of the customers already leaving the brothel while others stayed in the entrance hall, waiting for one of Sansa's companions. She shyly left the wings and got back to the meeting hall, looking around to make sure Marillion wasn't there. _But Lothor Brune kicked him out_ , she tried to reassure herself. Then, the idea of what Sandor could do to the piano player flustered her. _Thank God, he wasn't there and I won't tell him. I won't. No matter how I hate Marillion, no matter how scared I am, if Sandor learns what he tried to do to me, he'll be dead. Sandor needs to help me escape, instead of having a personal vendetta against the men who-_

Some customers still talked with Baelish's protegees in the meeting hall, but she froze when she spotted Tyrion Lannister, next to the musicians. All of the members of the band were putting away their instruments, except for the piano player who had covered for Marillion and the red-haired trumpet player Sansa found nice. The man was deep in conversation with Tyrion Lannister, though Sansa didn't understand what common ground these two could have. The Imp went silent as soon as he caught sight of her. _Baelish said I had to talk to Tyrion before he leaves. Let's get it over with._

She resolutely walked to the Imp, a polite smile on her lips.

"May I have a word with you, Miss Stark?" Tyrion courteously asked her. "After the performance you gave us, I assume you're thirsty."

She frowned, but the Imp wouldn't take no for an answer. Thus, she followed him docilely, as he waddled to the bar. They visibly disturbed the barmen who were already cleaning the counter.

"A Bloodhound for the lady, and whiskey for me. Top shelf," he said, looking up at the jaded barman.

The man sighed and obeyed the late and unwelcome customer.

"Do you know what is a Bloodhound, Sansa?"

"Should I?"

The peculiar name made her shiver, but she steeled herself instantly. Crossing her arms about her chest, she observed Tyrion climbing on the nearest stool, then turning to her with the exaggerated, ironic smile that annoyed everyone – the smile that inevitably maddened Cersei. _What does he mean?_

"I suppose it's a sort of liquor," she replied as he arched his eyebrow, his mocking expression bringing out his fresh scars.

"You're a darling. A Bloodhound is a gin-based cocktail. Sweet vermouth, dry vermouth, gin and crushed strawberries. Strong, violent, somewhat bitter but becoming very... sentimental in the end."

_He's not talking about a cocktail anymore_ , she realized, biting her lip. The Imp stared at her, enjoying her confusion, until the barman brought back two glasses – one with whiskey and a stemmed glass filled with a red liquid. Noticing her unease, Tyrion Lannister patted her gloved forearm with his short hand.

"We have a mutual friend, though I never imagined I would call him that someday," he whispered. "The Hound says hello. I guess 'hello' is not what he'd like to tell you and I doubt he comes here to make conversation with his little bird, as he calls you, but whatever..."

"Why are you here? I thought-"

"You thought I'd come to watch your humiliation and to get an eyeful of you before buying your virginity. Well, that's what I gave Littlefinger to understand. Drink, now."

She raised the glass to her lips and the strong cocktail burned her throat; she shut her eyes, wincing, and heard the Imp's laughter.

"The heaviest drinker I know and the sober little girl from the North. You make a strange couple, really."

She glared at him.

"We're not-"

"We should talk upstairs," he suggested, cutting her off. "We can't have any privacy here, obviously. Don't worry, dear. The Hound swore I would die a painful death if I ever touched you."

"That's not funny," she retorted, shaking her head to remove the thought.

_Thank God, the Imp doesn't know what happened during the intermission. He could tell Sandor otherwise, and then..._ Sansa wasn't able to finish her cocktail; she assumed drinking what remained of her Bloodhound wouldn't inconvenience one of the barmen and she led Tyrion Lannister upstairs. She swallowed hard when hearing couples on the landing and on the third floor: some customers had decided to draw out their night in the brothel. Stopping in front of her bedroom, she pushed the door open.

"So that's where Baelish keeps you, huh?" Tyrion commented, sweeping the room. "Nice jail. You didn't have a four-poster bed in the Red Mansion, as far as I know."

"What do you want?" she asked, shutting the door behind them.

"I want to know more about the investment I just made."

Sansa wished she could slap him in the face. Was there somebody who didn't see her as an investment? _Sandor wants me for myself. And Evie could take advantage from me, but she doesn't._

"Listen, dear. The Hound came to me, told me he needed a lot of money and suggested he could do anything to repay the favor. I'm curious so I wanted to know what this money was for; I tried to worm the information out of him, to no avail. In the end, I said I wanted his help to escape and to leave no trace in case my dearest family looked for me. He snorted and answered he was preparing his flight. With you."

The Imp paused, watching her closely. She gestured to the big armchair, bidding him to sit down; Tyrion hesitated, seemingly finding the armchair oversized for a man of his height and he took a chair instead. She gingerly sat on the edge of her bed.

"Believe it or not, dear, I'm concerned. You, flying away with the fearsome Hound? I don't like that idea."

"Sandor is good to me."

His reaction was not long in coming. "Sandor?" he repeated, eyes widening in disbelief. "How interesting... The Hound's attack of sentimentalism left me dumbfounded but I never suspected you'd... fall for a man like him."

"I didn't-" she protested, feeling an unpleasant warmth on her cheeks.

"You barely knew him before," Tyrion went on, scooting to the edge of his seat. "Does it mean he knows you in the biblical sense now?"

Sansa gaped at his boldness and she had to steel herself before offering an answer.

"Elegant as ever," she observed coldly. "Why don't you ask Sandor?"

Hearing Sansa call Sandor by his first name apparently disturbed Tyrion; she cracked a smile at the realization and enjoyed his bewilderment.

"My dear, there are questions dwarfs never ask to a man who's nearly seven feet tall. Guess why," he smirked. "Maybe some questions are best avoided. Anyway, I promised the Hound I would give him money, so that he can visit you and I suggested we could escape the day your virginity will be sold."

"Can't we leave before?"

"I have private matters to deal with. And we need to cover ourselves."

"What do you mean?"

"My beloved sister had you sign some papers and I think we can prove her stranglehold on your father's fortune is illegal. I need to find that documentation you signed before we leave."

He reached his feet to the floor and walked around the bedroom, examining Sansa's gilded cage. After rummaging through the records she kept by the phonograph, he waddled to the bedside table, then he snorted. Sansa didn't pay much attention to Tyrion until he turned to her, a triumphant look on his face.

"Is it from the Red Mansion's library?" he asked, brandishing one of the books Sandor had stolen for her. The golden lion on the spine left Sansa no other choice than to nod sheepishly. "I don't remember Cersei giving you books," he added, curiosity sparkling in his mismatched eyes. "I don't picture her giving books to anyone, besides. And you're not the kind of girl who borrows things and forgets to bring them back, so how did you get this?"

Slowly walking to her, he held the red binding of the _History of Navigation_. She shrugged.

"Come on, Sansa, you can do better than that. How did you get this book? You don't even care about boats!"

"Well, it's- it's a long story," she stammered. "He... I mean... Sandor brought some books one day. So that I could read instead of gossiping with the other girls. His words, not mine."

Wide-eyed, Tyrion Lannister stared at her before chuckling.

"He stole books for you? What is he going to bring you next time? A spiritual adviser?"

"Sandor just wanted to be kind," she countered, infuriated by his jeering tone. "Why do you need to criticize everything he does?"

"Why do you need to explain every damn thing your knight in shining armor does? No, wait, I already know why you're so eager to defend the fierce soldier who turns into a hopeless romantic when he talks about you."

Sansa doubted Sandor had confided in Tyrion Lannister, first of all because he wasn't fond of the Imp, and moreover because he was all but incommunicable. Tyrion had guessed what information he had. _He's pushing me to the edge, probably out of curiosity._

"Are you going to help us?" she asked him, ignoring his previous remark.

"I'm going to leave New York with you and your unlikely companion. I guess you can say I'll help you. If you want books, I can bring you some, next time. I can find something better than the... _History of Navigation_ by Taylor and MacGraw."

His mocking tone hardly surprised her and she didn't show the signs of irritation he was looking for on her face; she remained silent for a while.

Oddly enough and unbeknownst to Sandor, the three books stolen in the Red Mansion's library had become much more than a collection of stories and information. These books had been his first gift to her and therefore, their value had nothing to do with the topic they dealt with – even if the _History of Navigation_ was deadly boring. Sansa associated them with the beginning of their epic relationship. Sandor had troubles with intimacy, she knew it, and he had perhaps chosen to offer Sansa some books because these items had no romantic connotation. What had happened between since then had made the books priceless.

If some other man offered her a book now, she wasn't sure the Hound would be pleased and it would feel like a betrayal. Choosing books had become an intimate gesture for Sandor – and for her.

"I thank you, but Sandor will give me more books the next time he comes," she explained politely.

"Very well. Any message for the Hound?"

Sansa let her eyes fall on her lap, chewing her lip. The night had been nerve-wracking and there were things she couldn't tell Tyrion. _Even if he's our ally._ Looking up, she met his gaze.

"Just tell Sandor I need him here."

* * *

A thick fog wrapped the banks at daybreak, shattering the morning sun's efforts to illuminate the East River. Addam Marbrand cracked a smile at the sight of the young police officer blowing on his hands. The kid wore a brand new uniform and he was most likely a rookie on his first crime scene. _Assuming this is a crime scene._

Addam wondered how the young man standing on his left and staring at the misty riverbank envisioned the discovery of a corpse. _How did I react the first time?_ He couldn't remember the details of the case, but he had never forgotten the sprawled body of the woman on the glazed tiles of her kitchen. A crime of passion, quickly solved: they had arrested her husband the day after and he had confessed the murder in an off-hand manner that still disturbed Addam years later.

This case on the riverbank was different, though: a car thrown in the East River, but barely covered with water, so much so a tramp had seen it, adding there was a corpse inside the car. The man, an informer of the Homicide Bureau, was often drunk and Addam knew more reliable finks than him, but his information was right: the black roof of a car was visible despite the murky waters and the vehicle was so close to the riverbank, removing it from the East River wouldn't be very difficult.

_What kind of amateurish job is this?_ This could have been done by a person who read cheap detective novels and wanted to get rid of his wife, for instance. At least, it wouldn't be another settling of score between bootleggers.

As the crane operator from the nearest building site started his improvised mission, Addam sighed, remembering the murder of a restaurant owner named Gerald Halder. No one in the Homicide Bureau had been able to unravel the mystery and the tiresome Halder family kept coming to the police precinct, asking what was the point in paying taxes if the police didn't do its job. Addam knew that kind of two-faced people; the victim had spent the last years storing and selling liquor, greasing corrupt prohibition agents' palms and his family had grown richer thanks to bootlegging, but now the patriarch was dead, they demanded justice.

And there was Meryn Trant, a well-known henchman of the Lannisters, who had vanished into thin air. _A good fellow, that one: extortion, grievous bodily harm, sexual assault._ He had even been suspected for two murders, but his connections protected him. Addam sometimes believed Gerald Halder's case was related to Meryn Trant's disappearing, though most of his men disagreed.

What could be the link? Rumor had it that Gerald Halder sold the Lannisters' whiskey, but that wasn't enough to explain who had butchered the restaurant owner and probably killed Trant. Addam admitted he had failed to discover what connected these men – if there was a connection; he nevertheless kept the details of their cases at the back of his mind and he told himself the things would someday fall into place, if his sudden flash of intuition was correct. Seemingly unenthusiastic, the young police officer blew on his hands again and turned to him as the crane operator cursed: his attempt to lift the car and remove it from the river had come to nothing.

"Are you married, Sir?" the young man asked him bluntly.

"Does boredom make you nosy?" Addam retorted, amused by his sudden confusion. Despite the fog, he could tell his young companion was blushing. "I investigate murder cases everyday," Addam offered. "Crimes of passion, perfect housewives poisoning their husband, husbands slitting the throat of their dear wife... I'm not married. What about you?"

"I'm getting married next month," the kid mumbled, avoiding his gaze and staring at the ghostly frame of the Brooklyn Bridge, somewhere behind Addam. "In my hometown. Then Frances and I will move to New York." The mere mention of his fiancee's name put the smile back on his chubby face.

"Good for you."

The front of a black car briefly emerged from the East River before falling again, splashing cloudy water and eliciting a torrent of swear words from the crane operator.

"You never miss a female presence, once your day is over?" the young man insisted.

_Dumbass_ , Addam thought, mentally face palming. What in hell was he doing with a nosy young officer like this one? All this was ridiculous: the way the car had been thrown into the East River, the crane operator's pathetic efforts to remove the car from the water, this conversation...

"Brothels exist, kid," he said. Addam himself didn't believe in his paternalistic tone.

"I was just saying," the kid scowled, shrugging and shoving his hands in his pockets.

His vexed silence allowed Addam to remember his last visit to the brothel and his discussion with Petyr Baelish, who urged him to see his new protege. _Sansa Stark._ A sweet girl whose dead eyes made him feel guilty. Locked in Baelish's house, doomed to sell her body and to never enjoy the money she made – Littlefinger would see to it. _Poor girl._ Addam had sensed that day she blamed him for something – for being there? For being there despite his police badge? For giving up the investigation on her parents' death?

He squinted his eyes, observing the car body as it emerged from the river, its front damaged, water flowing out of the car from the opened windows. Cursing and shouting, the crane operator managed to drop the wreck on the bank. It had been an Oldsmobile 45A and Addam told himself it was a pity such a car ended in the East River.

"There's a body, inside!" the crane operator yelled, leaving the driver's seat of his vehicle and walking away as if the car could explode anytime.

While the young prick watched the scene, mesmerized by the sight of a car which had spent some time underwater, Addam came closer and peeked into the passenger compartment. There was the swollen body of a man, lying across the front seat. Behind him, he felt the young officer's presence. Curiosity had overpowered apprehension and he was pressing his face against a half open window.

"I can't see his head," the kid exclaimed.

Addam sucked in a deep breath. "That's because someone beheaded him."

His tone was cold, matter-of-fact; maybe he overdid the role of the indifferent, world-weary detective, eager to offend the young officer. Addam didn't need to look at him to be sure he was gaping, eyes roaming over the swollen corpse clad in black. _It can't be something ordinary, though. What kind of person beheads his victim?_

He opened the car door, and more water flowed out before he could remove the body and drag it on the ground. The young officer helped him, nausea making him purse his lips. _You'll get used to it. And the smell will be far worse in a couple of hours._ Addam scrutinized the victim, then squatted to search the man's pockets and to find a wallet or anything useful to identify him. _Nothing at all, but he's got a shoulder holster, so he most likely belongs to the underworld._

"Look inside the car," he ordered, raising his gaze and locking eyes with the young officer.

Despite the feeble light of the morning, Addam noticed the shoulder holster was empty: the murderer had taken whatever gun his victim carried on him, and there were marks on the neck, several deep cuts indicating the suspect had taken it out on the man.

"There's a knife under the front seat!" the young officer announced.

"So what?" Addam replied a bit stiffly. "Do you find something else? Did you check the back seat?"

The car doors grated while Addam observed the gashes on the man's swollen hands. All this looked like a settlement of scores between mobsters, except mobsters were usually more careful. _What happened?_ Whoever had cut the man's head off knew exactly what he was doing, but the amateurish way the car had been thrown in the East River disturbed him.

"No!" the young officer whispered. "Can't be true..."

The detective stood up in time to see the kid hurrying out of the car, slamming the door as if it could help him forget what he had seen; sighing, he watched his companion leaning against some utility pole and throwing up.

Addam opened the car door and looked at the back seat: the kid had indeed found something that would help them identify their victim. In all likelihood, the young officer had unwrapped a dark blanket caked with mud and discovered inside a head, swollen like the mortal remains he had already examined. Despite the mud, pallid, distorted features were familiar. The droopy eyes and the reddish hair belonged to someone whose file he had read lately, and even met, years ago, thanks to his old friend Jaime Lannister.

_Meryn Trant._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot to Underthenorthernlights, who beta reads this story!
> 
> Thanks a lot to you, who read and comment this fic. Your words inspire me!


	12. Throwing Red Meat to the Police

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's eyes fell on his dark overcoat, roamed over his torso and she felt again the lump in her throat. He came. I wished I could talk to him and he's here. Forgetting about the cans and jars on the shelves that gave a less than romantic atmosphere to the pantry, she threw herself in his arms, burying her face against his chest and enjoying his typical scent. She heard the rattle of his breath before feeling his big hands on her back.  
> "Who hurt you?" he asked her, his hot breath warming the crown of her head.  
> "No one," she lied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for foul language, racist remarks and violence.

"Girls, I'm leaving and I won't be back before Monday," Petyr Baelish announced, each word laced with regret.

All his employees were gathered in the meeting hall and they were expected to sigh and beg him silently, eyes widening with the certainty that they couldn't do without his watchful presence. Mary, as usual, overdid the role of the loyal girl and sniffed noisily. Knowing she was far enough from their boss, Sansa nudged at Meg, a quizzical look on her face.

"Does Mary and Baelish...? you know..." she asked the dark-haired girl in an undertone.

Meg cocked her head to the side so that no one else but Sansa could see her triumphant smile – for some reason, it seemed that Meg looked for moments like this one, when Sansa became more curious about what went on between men and women.

"You're so cute, Sansa..." Meg cooed. "How do you think Mary got a bigger bedroom than everyone, except Peitho, you and Viola?"

Sansa frowned, while Mary took Baelish's hand in hers, her dramatic gesture making Edna roll her eyes.

"But Peitho..." Sansa insisted, whispering in Meg's ear, "she doesn't mind? I mean-"

Meg shook her head, seemingly amused by Sansa's naivete. "God, there's so much you have to learn! Baelish fooled around with half the girls. It's like... tradition. Peitho knows better than making a scene."

Sansa averted her eyes. _It makes me want to get sick._ Meg was still glancing at her, waiting for her friend to ask the question. Her almond-shaped eyes had never looked so mischievous. _Ask me_ , they seemed to say. _Oh well..._

"Alright," Sansa whispered. "Did you...?"

"When I came here, yes. Once or twice... Spare me your doe-eyed stare, Sansa, it was just a blow job... I suppose he didn't reach seventh heaven because I ended up in a tiny bedroom. Anyway, that's one of the many reasons why Viola hates you: you didn't have to suck him off to get the biggest room. Poor Viola spared no effort to get her room back... No matter what she let him do to her, she returned empty-handed."

Sansa had other questions to ask, but she bit her lip, afraid someone would notice Meg and her weren't as concerned by Baelish's departure as they were supposed to. In the huge room decorated for Christmas, the girls surrounded their boss like children flocking around a slender, cheap version of Santa Claus.

"This is the saddest Christmas ever," Mary said, her voice quavering.

This time, even Baelish became aware that Mary's reaction was exaggerated and he did his best to keep a straight face. _This is certainly the saddest Christmas I remember_ , Sansa mused, _though it's not for the reasons Mary imagines. Without Father and Mother, without Robb... Without the Hound._ It felt strange to add Sandor Clegane to her list, yet Sansa missed him and waiting for him without a clue as to when he would come back was getting harder every day.

After Meryn Trant's visit, Sansa had been wondering if there could be another aggression like that one and she had wished Sandor would help her escape as soon as possible. Things had dramatically changed during the last show in Baelish's house. Her assault by Marillion made her wonder not if, but when, she would have to face another man who wanted to hurt her. _And I need Sandor here, telling me it's going to be alright._

A quick glance reassured her: nobody had noticed how puzzled she was, Mary's ridiculous attempt to prevent Baelish from leaving the brothel was drawing everyone's attention. They had unwrapped the gifts Baelish offered the girls under the big Christmas tree, they had given Baelish a cigar box and sang songs for him – like a bunch a docile little girls, as if Christmas allowed them to forget what they did for a living – and now they were feigning sadness because their boss wouldn't be there for four days. _All this is absurd._

"Did Evie...?" Sansa asked Meg in an undertone. "You know... with Baelish."

Meg shook her head. "The mute is too dumb to be calculative. Frankly, after he discovered she was knocked up, she needed to make it up to Baelish. He would have softened. He would have found someone to get rid of the baby and I'm sure he would have forgiven her. Instead of coaxing our boss, she got Baelish to understand she wanted to keep the baby... See, I told you she was dumb."

Sansa mentally protested but she knew she couldn't change Meg's opinion about Evie. Frustration washed over her but she gave up, focusing on Peitho's reaction. The tall blond woman who would take all important decisions once Baelish would be gone didn't show any resentment towards Mary's coquettish behavior: well-composed and silent, the madam observed the girl with light brown curly hair as she simpered in front of their boss. _Who is she?_ Sansa mused, staring at Peitho's perfect oval face. _Is she going to take revenge on Mary as soon as Baelish goes away?_

In the end, Baelish took his leave, theatrically waving at the girls as if he was on his way to some expedition to the North pole. When the front door slammed, Peitho swept the room, a smile creeping on her lips.

"Well, girls... Why don't we indulge ourselves and have a day off? No customers tonight!"

* * *

Later, that day, Rose knocked at Sansa's door as she dreamily looked through the window. The cook seemed to be in a hurry and her nervous glances made Sansa fear the worst.

"He's in my kitchen," she told the girl, without a proper hello.

"Who's in your kitchen?"

"Your friend," she whispered, shaking. She sounded as if Sandor was so threatening she didn't dare say his name. "The one who nearly broke my arm. He says he wants to talk to you."

Sansa wished she had enough time to comb her hair and to look at her reflection in the mirror before going downstairs, but a sense of urgency made her follow the cook without a word. In the staircase, her legs moved of their own accord, leading her to the dimly lit entrance hall, then to the place where he waited for her. She seldom went to the kitchen and its large dimensions surprised her; scanning the room, she froze when she became aware Sandor Clegane was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is he?" she asked, hitting the high note. "Did you try to fool me?"

Bringing her hands to her hips, Rose shook her head without trying to conceal her irritation. "He's here," she replied, pointing at a wooden door.

Sansa frowned suspiciously. "You locked him in a closet?"

"I hid him! I couldn't leave the kitchen to warn you without hiding him somewhere. He's in the pantry. If someone had come in-"

Her explanations were of little interest for Sansa: she walked to the door, then she opened it. In the small pantry, standing between two imposing shelves, Sandor's huge frame seemed cramped. He had lit the electric lamp though the light bulb brushed the top of his head. A lump in her throat, Sansa closed the door behind her.

"Are you sure...?" she heard Rose ask.

Instead of taking the trouble to answer the old woman, she locked eyes with Sandor. He looked sheepish, like a hungry boy caught in the kitchen during his midnight prowl for something to eat; hesitating, he stepped forward, crossing half the space between them.

"The Imp said you wanted to talk," he offered tentatively.

_No, that's not what I told him. I said I needed you._ Sansa wondered for a short while if Tyrion Lannister had misrepresented her words or if Sandor had misunderstood the messenger, but neither one nor the other option convinced her: the tall, broad-shouldered man standing in front of her had understated her thoughts, thus showing they were more important for him than he admitted it.

Sansa's eyes fell on his dark overcoat, roamed over his torso and she felt again the lump in her throat. _He came. I wished I could talk to him and he's here._ Forgetting about the cans and jars on the shelves that gave a less than romantic atmosphere to the pantry, she threw herself in his arms, burying her face against his chest and enjoying his typical scent. She heard the rattle of his breath before feeling his big hands on her back.

"Who hurt you?" he asked her, his hot breath warming the crown of her head.

"No one," she lied.

_I can't tell him. If I tell him, Marillion will be dead and some detective will find out what happened. No matter how I hate Marillion for what he tried to do, two dead people is enough and I don't want Sandor to go to jail nor-_

"Are you sure, Little Bird?" he rasped, suddenly clasping firm hands on her shoulders to pull away.

His concerned gaze struck her. _But he doesn't know. How could he?_ She bit her lip.

"It's just that... I need you," she pleaded. "I'm so afraid. I need you to comfort me and to help me escape. I need you here."

He crushed her against him, letting her breath in the woolen fabric of his overcoat. _I need you to hold me, to kiss me perhaps._ She had wrapped her arms around his middle and held him tightly, but she instinctively shifted and reached for his neck. He was so tall she had to tiptoe before he lowered himself a bit, making her heart pound wildly. All she could hear was his ragged breathing and she feared his reaction, whether it was rejection or boldness. She felt a kiss on the top of her head, then his hands rubbing her back and brushing her sides, making her shiver in anticipation.

Suddenly he freed himself from her embrace, but only to remove his coat and drop it to the floor before pulling her close again. His waistcoat soaked whatever tears filled her eyes and she pressed herself harder against him, wishing he could finally understand and kiss her. He certainly awoke something deep inside Sansa; shame washed over her when she tried to imagined what she looked like at this moment, in his arms and blushing.

Her face buried in his waistcoat, she felt something hard against her belly and she gasped when she realized what it meant.

"I'm sorry," he said, pulling away at once.

Sandor sounded as surprised as she was and he let his long dark hair fall over his face, in a very convenient way to conceal his emotions.

"Don't be," she answered, fidgeting at the thought that he might run away because he felt uncomfortable with what had just happened. She instinctively positioned herself between him and the door, as if to prevent a possible escape. _I know he wants me. I figured it out a while ago, now. That's not so terrible... especially if I try not to look at his pants._ Regaining his composure, he didn't try to push her aside to leave but he reacted the only other way he knew, by taunting her.

"What did you expect, girl?" he sneered. "When you press yourself against a man, that's what happens. I'm not different. I'm even worse than them all."

"Don't talk like that," she protested. "You're not-"

The spell was broken; she saw it in his stormy gray eyes. The Hound was back, sullen and sarcastic.

"I can't stay for a long time," he growled. "That's probably better for the Little Bird. The old woman didn't want to tell you I was here, at first. I scare her and she fears what I could do to you. She's right. The foolish Little Bird doesn't know what I'm capable of."

"I know you would never hurt me."

Her plea sounded so derisory, that he snorted. The smell of light tobacco and whiskey she now associated with him tickled her nostrils mockingly. _He's here with me, in the smallest room of Baelish's house and instead of comforting each other, we argue as if we have time to waste._

"Tyrion Lannister said he wanted to escape as well," she finally whispered.

He nodded, avoiding her gaze. "I needed money. To keep visiting you here and to buy whatever tickets we'll need to escape. Was he- Was he rude with you?"

His apologetic tone struck Sansa, but not as much as his odd question about Tyrion's politeness. _It's the pot calling the kettle black._ She shook her head.

"No, he wasn't. Do you trust him, Sandor?"

He sighed deeply, arms dangling. "I don't really have a choice. The Imp never was a friend of mine, but he's rich. And he hates this fucked up world the Lannisters created as much as I do. Perhaps even more."

They heard the muffled sounds of a pot falling on the kitchen floor and it reminded Sansa of the lack of time.

"I thought it would be just you and me," she pointed out, disappointment visible in her blue eyes as she raised her head.

"The little bird forgets her courtesies."

"I mean it. I thought you preferred honesty."

He was at a loss, she could sense it and he didn't say anything when she stepped forward until a foot of space separated them.

"I trust you," she said looking up at him, "so we'll travel with Tyrion if you think it's safe. I meant- I meant what I said, though. And I need you."

With that, she took his hand, once more surprised by the rough skin and the callosity she found on the palm and long fingers. Combined with his smell, the touch of his hand made her heart race and she felt the unpleasant warmth on her cheeks was back. Sandor Clegane was looking at the quick rise and fall of her chest: when she heard his heavy breathing, the thought that he was involuntarily imitating her disturbed the girl. _His breathing echoes mine._

As confusing as it could be, it was the last thought that crossed her mind before he took her in his arms, gently this time, mumbling words she couldn't understand, in her hair. Although his hands traveled along her sides, he didn't crush her against him, probably frightened by his own reaction. _But I know he wants me. I think I want the same. Anyway, I want to be in his arms before he goes away._

Sansa brushed the unburnt side of his face and locked eyes with him before snaking her arms around his neck and willingly pressing herself against him. She could feel his arousal and that certainty seemed to break the Hound's resolution; lifting her in his arms, he carried her until her back was flush against the wooden door.

Neither of them cared for the thud that most likely startled Rose behind the pantry door: Sansa was in his arms and nothing else mattered. Shuddering with anticipation, she thought he was about to kiss her, but she soon became aware he hesitated, looking at her lips, then fervently kissing her forehead, her temples or her nose. _But I want that kiss. He knows it's important to me, so why doesn't he..._

His hands gripped her hips as his need pressed shamelessly against her, and suddenly it was a different man she was looking at: the gray eyes had gone dark and they glistened with lust. The red and taut skin on his scarred side was even more repulsive, when looked closely at. Her younger self would have cringed at that sight and run away before he could even touch her; she opened her legs and tentatively wrapped them around his waist, remembering all the things she had been taught during her childhood about how a proper lady should behave. These rules, these taboos, Sansa had respected them until she found out they didn't protect her, but made her weak and helpless, an easy mark for the Lannisters.

_Things can change. I can change. I can-_ The rest lost itself in the confusion overwhelming her as he settled himself in the space between her legs. _Is it what you wanted?_ the steely gray eyes asked her silently, as he rocked his hard member against her thigh. He couldn't suppress a groan and he closed his eyes for a second, supporting her legs and brushing her temple with his cracked lips. She imagined her hiked-up skirt and she knew full well how awkward and precarious her position was, yet she felt no fear, and only held him tight, nails digging in his upper arms, lips slightly parted in case he changed his mind and decided to kiss her.

"Are you still there?" they heard Rose ask behind the door.

The old woman's voice exuded concern for Sansa as much as it meant the end of their embrace. Unsteady, Sansa had to lean on his arm not to fall.

"We're coming," she replied, turning to the door to face the invisible cook.

Sandor's gaze was fixed upon her when she spun around, and she felt suddenly naked. Demurely folding her arms, she averted her eyes.

"When will you come back?" she asked him.

"Joffrey's last appointment is on Monday morning. We'll be back on Monday afternoon. Don't know when I'll come back to see you, Little Bird."

She chewed her bottom lip, fighting against tears.

"Come back soon," she begged. "Come as a customer or sneak in... as you wish. I need you here, that's all."

His expression softened and he traced her jaw line.

"I'll do what I can," he rasped.

He most likely didn't know how frustrating his cold, matter-of-fact answer was. Sansa steeled herself as he picked up the coat that had fallen on the floor, then put it on with hurried movements. She looked at him once more, swallowing the lump in her throat, as he planted himself in front of her, ready to leave.

"I'll be back soon," he promised, clasping a heavy hand on her shoulder. "I'll be back and I'll take good care of you."

She reluctantly opened the door and he followed her in the kitchen. Rose frowned when she saw them and Sansa wondered if the cook could imagine what had happened between them in the pantry: the thought made her blush and she applied the back of her cool hand on her cheek as the old woman led Sandor to the back-door.

* * *

Andrei Berdokhovski stared at her as he settled himself in the huge leather armchair next to her bedside table, but she soon forgot about it; she fumbled with the envelope, tearing it because she couldn't wait any longer. Sansa had recognized Robb's spidery writing on one side, and she had felt like her heart could explode anytime. Finally retrieving the letter from the torn envelope, she sat down on the edge of her bed before her legs gave out.

The letter was short, perhaps shorter than hers. She sucked in a deep breath and began to read.

_"Sansa,_

_After weeks without hearing from you, your letter was a relief. I hope you are in good health, wherever you are. I looked for you and even hired some Pinkerton agent, before a part of the hydroelectric power plant burned down. Please tell me where you are and I'll come right away._

_Your loving brother, Robb Stark."_

Sansa re-read it three times, before realizing her Russian customer had left the armchair and was standing in front of her, a thoughtful look in his pale eyes. She folded the page, sighing, and looked up at Berdokhovski.

"How can I thank you?" she asked him.

He shrugged and the faint smile that pulled the corner of his lips made him look younger. "You already know how you can thank me, Sansa," he replied.

As an awkward silence stretched in the bedroom, they heard the deep voice of a male singer crooning _Pale Moon_.

_"Out of my lodge at eventide,_

_'Mong the sobbing pine,_

_Footsteps echo by my side,_

_A spirit face, a sign."_

Eager to break the silence, she cracked a smile, then stood up and put a light kiss on the blond man's cheek. His cologne was as elegant as everything surrounding him and she smiled again, though she sensed his disappointment.

"What is it, Sansa? Talk to me, dear."

Even his voice had that strange lilt she associated with comfort and sympathy – not with passion. The memories of the Hound's visit, the day before, came washing over her like waves, making her cheeks red before he brushed her bare upper arm, gently, as if he doubted she was for real. The contact of his hand – cool and manicured – brought Sansa back to reality. _Berdokhovski is here, standing in front of me, and I have to answer something._

"What's on your mind?" he asked again, not pushing her but showing how concerned he was.

In Sansa's distressed mind, images began to churn: Marillion throwing her on a couch in the darkest corner of the entrance hall, Petyr Baelish telling her she had to up the bidding, Sandor's body pressed against hers, Evie's round belly... _None of my current worries is blameless or appropriate, except perhaps those concerning Evie._

"I have a friend," she started, biting her lip. "She's in trouble."

"What happened to her?" he asked, genuinely curious, and motioning her to the armchair while he sat down on a stool.

Sansa sighed deeply and explained it all, insisting on what Baelish had planned about Evie's baby. Berdokhovski didn't even look surprised.

"Horrible things happen, in places like this one," he commented, pondering on Sansa's words.

"It's unfair," she replied. "And how can you not be disgusted by what Baelish is up to?"

"I am disgusted, Sansa. Never doubt it. Lamenting won't change anything though."

Cut to the quick, she gaped. "What do you suggest, then?" she asked. "Forgetting it all, because I can't help her?"

"You can't do anything for your friend, as long as you're stuck in this place, Sansa. That being said, we can... think of something."

_We?_ Sansa's heart skipped a beat. She remembered a piece of advice that Myranda Royce, a girl she had met in the Red Mansion, someone she thought was her friend, had once given her. _"There's an interesting theory, Sansa. People call it 'The first step is the hardest to make.' It means that, when you convince someone to do you a favor, even a small one, it's much easier to ask him or her to help you again. Some men got married this way."_

Sansa found her brazen and she thought of Myranda as an acquaintance, not as a friend, yet her words had struck her. Could she ask Berdokhovski to help Evie, now that he had agreed on sending letters to Robb? _Am I taking advantage of him? Probably. Do I have a better idea regarding Evie's escape? Certainly not._

"Are you offering your help?" she bluntly asked him.

Locking eyes with her, Berdokhovski cleared his throat. "I suppose that's what I just did." 

* * *

Counting the days was all she could do until Sandor Clegane's return. _And Baelish's return_ , Sansa corrected herself, glancing at Evie who hemmed a new dress for the next show. Sansa had convinced Peitho she needed Evie as an assistant when she sewed costumes. _"And I'm much more efficient when I work upstairs, in my bedroom,"_ she had pleaded, easily persuading the madam. Evie was sitting in the armchair – reluctantly, because she thought she didn't deserve it – her slate next to her. Sansa had decided not to tell her about Berdokhovski's new offer until she was sure it could work, but she had been thinking about it all day long, swinging between hope and anguish.

Only the memory of her last meeting with Sandor distracted her attention from Berdokhovski's offer, and once more, it was something she couldn't share with Evie, no matter how many questions came tumbling out in her head. _What does she know about his likes and dislikes? Was he sometimes tender with her, or did he play the role of the ruthless Hound?_ She chewed her bottom lip, dying to ask her.

In the late afternoon, Baelish's house was rather quiet and hurried footsteps in the staircase made them listen carefully. Brow furrowed, Evie locked eyes with Sansa and tried to push herself from the armchair – a sudden move that proved to be difficult and slightly dangerous in her condition. Someone knocked at Sansa's door and they recognized Meg's high-pitched voice.

"Sansa? There's a parcel for you. Open up, please!"

Sansa walked to the door and let the dark-haired girl come in; Meg carried a large hatbox.

"A courier just arrived and dropped this for you," she explained, glancing around and mentally taking note of Evie's presence. "Have you got any idea of what's in the box?"

Meg's curiosity bordered on intrusion, sometimes, and Sansa immediately felt uncomfortable; she nonetheless smiled at her companion and took the box from her. When she saw Meg stepping in and closing the door behind her, Sansa realized she was forced to open the hatbox in front of the girl. _Privacy and well-guarded secrets are priceless_ , she mused, still annoyed and knowing for certain Meg would tell everyone what she had received. _At least, it doesn't come from the Hound_ , she told herself, brushing the glazed surface of the hatbox and the gray satin ribbons adorning it.

She put the hatbox on the bed and unknotted the ribbons, before removing the box lid. Under several layers of translucent wrapping tissue, she discovered the most exquisite cloche hat. Meg marveled at the sight of the beige felt and urged Sansa to put it on at once. Sansa complied and crossed the space between the bed and the mirror. Though her woolen dress was casual, the bell shaped hat gave her a mysterious look. _And I don't have to tuck my hair inside the hat, now that it's short._ She smiled at her own reflection, not really paying attention to Meg's chirping, nor to Evie's thoughtful gaze.

"Who sent you this?" she finally heard Meg ask.

Sansa had no clue; she thus shrugged, removing the beige hat and combing her hair. Unable to understand her indifference, Meg was already leaning over the empty box, looking for a message. _Oh no._ Before her nosy friend could find something she wanted to keep for herself, Sansa caught the hatbox, rewarding her with her most innocent smile. There was a card, hidden under layers of scrunching wrapping tissue.

"So who is it?" Meg insisted, almost hopping up and down.

"Can't I read the note first?" Sansa countered, still smiling.

Her smile vanished as soon as she began to read.

_"Dear Sansa,_

_I thought this gift could remind you of my existence while I am away and I am sure it looks gorgeous on you.  
_

_Yours sincerely, Petyr Baelish."_

She made a tremendous effort not to tear it to pieces. _Keep calm, don't make a scene in front of Meg or every girl who lives in this house will know it before supper._ Setting her jaw, she glanced at Evie, seeking comfort in her eyes.

"Who sent you this, darling Sansa?" Meg repeated.

The girl clearly coveted the cloche hat Sansa had put on the bedspread. _What choice do I have?_ She sighed and held Meg's gaze.

"Baelish sent me this." Her tone was calm, straightforward, yet Meg sensed her unease.

"Lucky girl. You don't need to sleep with Baelish to get all this," she said, showing the bedroom with a sweeping gesture, "but what's more, he keeps showering you with gifts."

Her words were laced with venom. _She knows I'm not comfortable with Baelish's presents. Or she's just jealous._ Meg pouted and crossed her arms about her chest.

"Tell me something, Sansa. You just received a gift. Why don't you look happy?" she went on. "There is not a single person in the brothel who wouldn't jump up and down."

"What's the matter?" Sansa retorted. "The hat is very elegant, but I can't wear it, since I can't leave this place. Maybe the other girls would jump up and down if Baelish gave them something like this, but you all have a day off every week and you can walk in the streets as you wish. I can't."

Meg glared at her. "Sometimes I understand why Viola hates you. You're smug. And you play the martyr better than you sing."

Her remark stung, but Sansa managed to chuckle anyway. With her tendency to sing off-key, Meg was in no position to judge her skills.

"Alright," Sansa replied. "You want this stupid hat? Take it, Meg. It's all yours."

"Who do you think you are? Are you giving me alms, or something? You're not the wealthy banker's daughter anymore, Sansa. Your parents are dead."

On the opposite side of the bed, Evie tapped her foot noisily to protest, appalled by Meg's verbal attack.

"Oh, and you chose your side," Meg added, an unpleasant smile appearing on her face. "You chose the mute. The shy virgin and the knocked-up whore. Frankly, I wonder why Baelish keeps you two here. No, wait. I know why Baelish keeps you here, Sansa. He wants to fuck you and you'll soon end up in his bed. That's the way things work here."

Meg meant to bring her down and Sansa lost color, as the girl stormed out of the bedroom. The door slammed so hard it sounded like a gunshot: within five minutes, everyone would know Baelish spoiled her, despite her ungratefulness and her arrogance. She clenched her fists. Evie came closer and wrapped a protective arm around Sansa's shoulders: it was then that she began to sob. She couldn't see anything through her tears, as Evie led her across the room and made her sit down on the edge of the bed; somewhere on her left, there was that damn hatbox and its wrapping paper. Evie cradled her, letting her cry to her heart's content.

Her head rested on Evie's shoulder long after she wiped her cheeks. Gently rubbing Sansa's back, Evie shifted and stood up cautiously, before walking around the bed to take her slate and a piece of chalk, then she sat back on the bed and wrote down something.

_"Even when Baelish is away, he manages to hurt you."_

"You're right. And he loves wasting his money. As if I was going to wear a hat, now that I'm stuck in this place."

_"He thinks he's your benefactor, I suppose."_

Sansa shook her head as if to forget about that notion. "My benefactor? You think he fancies himself as a sort of... what? Daddy Long-Legs?" she said, chuckling darkly.

Evie smiled and hastily wiped her slate before writing again. _"You being his Judy."_

Sansa's eyes widened. Most of the girls living in Baelish's house thought reading was meant to learn the latest gossips in _Broadway Brevities_. At least she had found someone who preferred books over gossip magazines.

"You read the novel by Jean Webster?" she asked Evie.

_"Of course I did. And I watched the movie with Mary Pickford."_

With a devilish smile, Evie bent over her slate, as if she wanted to make sure her friend couldn't see what she was doing: after a short while, Sansa realized she was drawing something. When Evie turned the slate, Sansa burst out laughing; her companion had reproduced one of the childlike line drawings that illustrated the novel, a man with never-ending legs, a hat and a walking stick.

"That's very well done," Sansa complimented her, "but Baelish is shorter, really."

Lifting one hand as if she asked Sansa to give her more time, Evie put the slate on her knees, wiped the long legs of the human form she had drawn, and replaced them by shorter ones. She then scribbled something and proudly showed it to Sansa. Next to the man wearing a top hat that seemed out of proportion with his short silhouette, Evie had written _'Daddy Short-Legs'._

They both roared with laughter, Evie placing a hand on her belly, then hurrying to the bathroom. Still repressing her hysterical laughter, Sansa watched Evie as she finally left the bathroom, a bit ashamed, but smiling. _I hate this place, but at least I found a friend who can't help me escape, who can't talk, but who's wittier than most of the girls I met in the Red Mansion. That counts for something._  

* * *

Addam Marbrand was either having a bad day – or he was just trying to intimidate her. The detective was admittedly sitting down in the big leather armchair of Sansa's bedroom, his elbows digging in the stuffed arm rests, but the phonograph was silent and Sansa didn't wear one of the expensive evening dresses she kept inside her closet nor the high heels shoes that made her look even taller. It was five o'clock and Addam Marbrand wasn't there for a dance: he wanted to question Sansa.

One of his subordinates – a young brown-haired man wearing glasses who seemed as fearful as she was when Marbrand gave him an order – had settled himself on a chair, two notebooks on his knees. Peitho had tried to protest, as well as Lothor Brune, but neither of them wanted to get into trouble with the police. Thus, the madam had left Sansa alone with the detectives, only advising the girl not to talk.

Sitting on a stool, hands demurely folded in her lap, Sansa did her best not to show her nervousness.

"Do you know why we came to see you?" Addam Marbrand asked her coldly.

"I suppose you don't want me to dance nor to sing, unless you forgot about the opening hours, Sir."

The two men exchanged an amused look at that, then the young man stared at Sansa with more insistence.

"Do you know a man named Gerald Halder?" the red-haired man went on.

Sansa hesitated. If they questioned her, they probably knew Pig had come here and she had danced for him. If she lied, they would realize it sooner or later. _And Sandor Clegane says I'm a terrible liar._

"I met him once. I danced for him. We didn't really talk," she answered, weighing her words.

"Do you know he's dead?"

After a few heartbeats, Sansa nodded. "I read the newspaper."

"What about Meryn Trant?" Addam Marbrand asked again, leaning forward.

She swallowed hard, trying to focus on what she had to do instead of letting her memories of the aggression overwhelm her.

"Well, we met in the Red Mansion, as he... is a friend of the Lannisters."

Sansa wondered if she had to lie about the Lannisters illegal activities; noticing her frown, the young detective tried to reassure her.

"We're not Prohihition agents, Miss. No need to pretend Trant was a good friend of Cersei Lannister. We know he worked for her family. As a henchman."

As Sansa remained silent, Addam Marbrand leaned forward again, elbows now resting on his knees.

"Meryn Trant was murdered, too," he told her. "You see, Miss Stark, the woman who rules this place has a very interesting habit: she notes down everything in a notebook we found downstairs. She keeps the customers' name and address, their likes, the girls they... hired. I'm sure you'd like to know what she wrote about Gerald Halder."

The young detective pushed himself from his seat to give Marbrand one of the notebooks – a large black leather notebook Sansa had seen on Baelish's desk. The red-haired man hardly thanked him and he squinted to read Peitho's slopping writing. He cleared his throat.

" _'Gerald Halder, restaurant owner, blah-blah, likes young girls, either blond or red-haired'_ " he read. " _'Always eager to meet new girls.'_ And then, there are the names of the girls he slept with. Dorothy, Lois, a... Velma and... what's that name? Jean, I think... and you."

"I don't do that," Sansa corrected. "I don't... sleep with men."

"Of course not," he approved. "You're the dancer." Though he remained courteous with her, his tone conveyed an unpleasant irony.

"Did you talk to Dorothy and Lois?" Sansa asked, perhaps a bit more stiffly than she wanted. "Why?" she added, as Marbrand shook his head.

"We didn't. Because Halder was murdered a few days after he spent the night here, and his last visit was for you. The madam's notebook is remarkably precise; she even notes down the date."

Sansa swallowed hard. "As I said, I danced for him and we didn't talk," she offered.

A sarcastic smile appeared on Marbrand's face, as if he was he was enjoying a little humor he was the only one to understand.

"And there's this interesting page about Meryn Trant," he went on, arching one eyebrow before focusing again on the notebook. " _'I don't know what he exactly likes, but every time he comes, the girls complain about him. Has probably a tendency for violence.'_ And then, your boss listed all the girls he spent the night with. You're the last girl on that list, though someone crossed out your name. How can you explain that?"

Sansa felt her face grow hot with confusion: why was she alone while the detectives questioned her? How could she negate the links that existed between her and Sandor's victims? How could she prevent them from inquiring about Sandor? She was at a loss, but she had to give them an answer, as quickly as she could.

"When I arrived in Mr Baelish's house, I was told not to reveal what happens when I am with a customer. Discretion about our patrons is something important. I'm sure you can understand that, Detective Marbrand. There's a page in that notebook you don't want me to talk about."

Sansa couldn't believe she had had the guts to threaten him, so to speak, yet she had done it and Marbrand's eyes narrowed while his companion did his best not to show his surprise. She was bluffing, and afterward, she wondered if Peitho kept a record of the policemen's visits: maybe law enforcement officers avoided the madam's policing in exchange of their silence.

"All I can tell you is that Mr Trant wasn't satisfied when he left this place," she finally said. "Why would I have something to do with these murders? I didn't know it when I first met him, but I read on the newspaper Gerald Halder stored whiskey. As for Meryn Trant, he was a henchman. Both had enemies. Plenty of enemies, I would say."

The young detective nodded ever so slightly and for a heartbeat, she thought she had convinced him; he locked eyes with her.

"We question the people who knew them or met them lately. It's routine," he explained matter-of-factly. "You knew both of them."

"I met them," she corrected.

"You're right, you met them."

From behind his round glasses, the young man had trouble hiding his liking for her. A glare from his boss nevertheless reminded him of his duties.

"You spent the night with both of them a few days before they died. That's an interesting coincidence, Miss."

Marbrand's unsettling gaze made her shiver. _But he doesn't know about Sandor. He can't imagine someone killed the men who beat me._

"Are you accusing me of killing these men?" she asked Marbrand. "Why would I? And how? Do you picture me killing someone? I'm not even able to defend myself. Both were heavier than me, and Meryn Trant... Meryn Trant would have knocked your partner to the canvas."

The young detective stiffened a bit but Marbrand smirked. "So you thought of killing them?" he inquired.

"I was answering your questions and trying to show you how absurd your accusations sound," she said coldly.

Before Marbrand could shoot back, the door slammed open and Baelish appeared in the doorway, out of breath.

"What's going on here?" he asked, furiously sweeping into the bedroom.

He still had his black coat and his Fedora on; the hat landed on Sansa's bed while he crossed the room and positioned himself behind Sansa. She looked up at him, wondering if she should stand up and give him her seat. Ignoring her puzzled gaze, Baelish placed his hands on his protege's shoulders. Any physical contact with Baelish remained repulsive for Sansa, but she steeled herself, understanding he was her ally.

"We're asking Miss Stark a few questions," Marbrand told him, unfazed.

"May I know what all this is about?"

"Murders. You know we investigate Meryn Trant's case, of course? Well, we found his corpse in his own car, in the East River. His body on the front seat, his head tucked in some blanket on the back seat."

Sansa gasped, horrified. At least, the detectives could see she was genuinely surprised by the details of Trant's death.

"After Gerald Halder who was slaughtered in his warehouse, this is the second murder your... employee is involved in," Marbrand added.

"Involved? Sansa isn't involved in anything. She stays here all day!"

Baelish's plea exuded indignation and for once, his presence comforted Sansa. _He'll get rid of them. He has connections._

"I'd like to know what Cersei Lannister and her father Tywin think of your investigation," Baelish said, sneering at the red-haired man. "Have you lost your mind to accuse a eighteen-year old girl?"

"Strange coincidences point to Miss Stark," Marbrand replied, adamant. "Both victims meet her shortly before their death. Perhaps she didn't kill these men but I believe she might know the murderer."

Baelish almost choked when he heard the detective's accusations and he tightened his grip on Sansa's shoulders. The girl took advantage of his surprise to ask the kind of question Cersei found stupid and so typical of Sansa.

"Are you suggesting I could have asked someone to kill these men for me? Are you- are you accusing Mr Baelish?" she said, casting frenetic glances at Marbrand then at his partner.

"We just-" the brown-haired detective began, shaking his head.

"Get out! Now!" Baelish shouted, startling Sansa.

She had never heard him screaming before and she jumped on her seat, her muscles tensing even more as his nails dug in her shoulders. The room went silent and Sansa did her best to calm down and to catch her breath. In the meanwhile, the young brown-haired man swallowed hard and stared at Marbrand, waiting for his orders, but nonetheless eager to leave as soon as possible: he shifted on his chair, ready to get on his feet.

Marbrand held Baelish's gaze for endless seconds, as he stayed perfectly still in the oversized leather armchair then, without flinching, he closed the notebook, pushed himself from his seat and moved past them with an irksome offhandedness. His partner followed him closely and almost bumped into him when Marbrand stopped mid-stride and turned to Sansa.

"There's something you're not telling us, Miss Stark," he said with a smirk, before opening the door.

Sansa averted her eyes; Baelish was still behind her but he removed his right hand from her shoulder.

"My notebook, if you will," he asked Marbrand in a commanding tone.

The detective gave it back to him before exiting and Baelish tossed the notebook on the bed with a sigh.

"Are you alright?" he whispered, his hushed tone contrasting with his fury, a minute earlier.

She nodded, eyes downcast and swallowing the lumps in her throat.

"I don't know-" she said tentatively, "I don't know how I can thank you for... rescuing me."

_And if someone had ever told me I would thank Baelish for his help, I would have laughed and said it was impossible._ Baelish walked around to face her and he shrugged, feigning modesty.

"Peitho told me Marbrand and this kid showed up here with a search warrant, which is absurd. Anyway, they found the notebook and I guess that's how they learned Trant and Halder came to watch you dance. Their accusations were ridiculous. We both know it, dear. I would never let them take you to the Homicide Bureau... When Peitho called the Red Mansion, I was there with Joffrey, talking about the last appointment he had during these four days, and I hurried to the house, knowing for certain they would make you talk. You didn't say anything they could use against you or against us, right?"

Sansa shyly shook her head; Baelish stepped forward and cupped her chin thus making her look at him.

"It's good to be home again, Sansa," he said. "I missed this place. I missed you."

She clenched her jaw, trying to hold his gaze. Think of something, anything you can say to change the subject.

"If they ever come back," she mumbled, "will you be there to help me answer their questions?"

Baelish was dangerous and she knew it; yet he had a weakness, like most men who pretend to be more powerful than they really are. He wanted to convince himself he could save her and be her hero and therefore, Sansa's tone or the way she looked at Baelish when she asked for his help didn't matter.

"Of course, dear. Of course I'll be there for you."

* * *

_The smoke-filled atmosphere of this fucking joint makes everyone look richer or more talented_ , Marillion mused.

The wreaths of smoke erased the wrinkles, hid the girls' dark circles and gave the customers the illusion they spent the night in a more fashionable place, something akin to the best clubs in town. However, the _Taffeta_ had nothing to do with the _Cotton Club_ where people could hear bright young things like Adelaide Hall and Bessie Smith. As irony would have it, the _Taffeta_ was much cheaper than the _Cotton Club_ and the fees Marillion received were probably lesser than the waiters' tips in the select restaurants of Manhattan.

Even the whiskey was cheaper, some foul liquid that left an unpleasant aftertaste in his mouth – if the owner ever bought the Lannisters' whiskey as he claimed he did, he certainly cut it with water. _In the best case scenario._ He emptied his glass and puckered up. _No. Cut whiskey with water wouldn't gave it that awful taste._ The bottom of his glass hit the counter a bit too forcefully perhaps and the bartender glared at him when he asked for another drink.

"You've had enough," the colored man spat, arching his eyebrow defiantly.

"I need more, Darky," Marillion explained. "If you had poured something I'd call whiskey in my glass, I suppose I wouldn't, but what you gave me was so disgusting I don't think I had my fill of booze for tonight. I need it. To play the piano."

The bartender rolled his eyes then he reluctantly poured more whiskey in Marillion's glass, as the young man rubbed his hands with glee. More whiskey meant more confidence and he certainly needed it after his ousting from Baelish's brothel.

The stool next to him squealed as he knocked back the whiskey, and Marillion, sniffing an intoxicating perfume, automatically swiveled his head. The woman was a young colored singer he had met sometimes in the club, a girl whose name evoked long journeys and sailing ships: Alize.

She had a beautiful voice matching with tantalizing curves. In the club, Alize outshone the others singers and some patrons even referred to her as the Queen of Sheba. More than once, Marillion had thought of taking her home. With her cheeky smile and her white silken dresses contrasting with her coffee-colored skin, Alize wouldn't stay forever in the smoky atmosphere of the _Taffeta_.

"What do you want, doll?" Marillion asked her, wishing the doll desperately needed a quick fuck before going on stage.

Alize donned her best smile. "My piano player is going to New Orleans next week," she explained, annoyance showing through her bright smile. "His mother's dead, he has to attend the funeral. Whatever. I need someone to replace Jim and I told myself you could do the trick."

Alize smiled again, tilting her head and touching the glittery headband holding her black frizzy hair.

"So, what do you think?" she asked him, visibly surprised by his lack of reaction.

_She knows that bastard of Baelish fired me. Everyone knows._ Since the night he had tried to fuck that arrogant red-haired named Sansa, a girl who had always lived in luxury and still put on airs and graces despite working in a brothel, the news had spread among the musicians and singers. Artists performing in clubs such as the _Taffeta_ formed a microcosm and everyone observed the others' successes and failures. Sansa was a mistake, he knew it; but he was ossified that night and the girl wasn't probably as shy as she pretended. He snorted.

"Who do you think you are?" he asked Alize.

She chuckled, wondering if he was drunk or if he was teasing her.

"Who do you think you are, bitch?" Marillion went on. "Did you ever see me playing for Negroes? Did you ever see a 'colored' musician in my band? Why would I replace your piano player? Why would I work for a singer whose grand-mother possibly scrubbed floors for one of my ancestors?"

The girl's smile had vanished, yet she held his gaze. For a few heartbeats, all they could hear was a piano next to the stage and a customer's roaring laughter.

"I suppose it's a 'no'," Alize managed to reply, a bit stiffly. "Jim had told me you were a jerk, but I wanted to ask you all the same. The owner of this brothel or whatever it is fired you, your musicians told you to fuck off, so you can forget your dreams about Tin Pan Alley. I was just trying to be kind. It's fine. I'll ask someone else and that someone will be glad to accompany me."

She got on her feet and briskly walked away, while Marillion contemplated the bottom of his empty glass.

"Bastard," a masculine voice said.

Marillion raised his gaze and saw the bartender glaring at him. "What did you say?"

"I said 'bastard'," the bartender calmly answered.

As the man behind the counter stepped forward, the electric lamp lit his ebony skin.

"The girl tries to help and you insult her. And me. You're a bastard and you deserve every damn thing that happened to you."

Marillion got on his feet and, leaning over the varnished surface of the counter, he grabbed the collar of the bartender's tuxedo.

"What did you say, scumbag? Who gave you permission to talk to me?"

His face distorted by rage, the bartender tried to wriggle away from him, knowing full well he would get into trouble for fighting inside the club, but Marillion held him firmly.

"Is that because you fuck that bitch?" Marillion went on. "You fancy yourself avenging her honor, or something? Well, there's no honor to avenge because Alize is just a slut and-"

A forceful punch on his nose prevented him from finishing his sentence; the bartender climbed on the counter then he threw himself on Marillion, who stumbled and fell on the floor. Around them, Marillion could hear the customers and employees' exclamations but beating the colored bartender and making him squeal was all that mattered. Despite his bleeding nose and the throbbing pain he felt, Marillion punched him back and for a second, he thought he could get the upper hand on the bartender.

"Enough!" the owner shouted, somewhere above Marillion and his opponent.

"That bastard threatened me!" Marillion explained, as the bartender froze, furious but always obeying his boss. "He dared touch me-"

Two bouncers pulled them apart and Marillion, while getting on his feet, touched his face carefully, wondering if his nose was broken or not. He retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and tried to stop the bleeding, while the bartender kept his eyes downcast. The owner, a fat man in his fifties whose comb-over didn't cover the bald spot, glared at them.

"Reggie, get back to work immediately."

"Yes, Sir," the bartender mumbled before dusting his white tuxedo and hurrying to the bar.

Marillion observed the bunch of customers who still surrounded them and he spotted Alize, a disgusted look on her snotty face, walking to the owner and whispering in his ear. _Oh, no. Don't do that, bitch..._ The owner's eyes widened suddenly and he snorted, while the young woman talked to him. She finally retreated to the wings, looking daggers at Marillion.

"I don't know what this bitch told you but-"

The owner crossed the space between him and Marillion before grabbing the young man's collar.

"You drink too much, you insult the girl for whom half the patrons come and you provoke one of my employees? You fight, in front of my customers? What do you think I'm going to do? Tell my bouncers to kick you out? Certainly not! I'm going to do it myself and I'll do it gladly. You think you're talented? You have a pretty face and that's all!"

He dragged Marillion across the room and he stopped before reaching the door. Panting and wiping his damp forehead with one hand, he looked at the young man straight in the eyes.

"You know what? The people who work for me – Alize, her musicians and the rest – they'll make your life a misery by telling everyone you're an arrogant scrapper. It's a small world, boy, and your disgrace will soon be on everyone's lips. Next time we see each other, you'll be playing in the streets, begging for dimes."

The fat man opened the door leading to the entrance hall and led him to the front door a broad-shouldered bouncer pushed open for him.

"I left my coat inside!" Marillion protested as the owner and his massive employee exchanged an amused glance.

"Ed, his coat," the owner finally said, crossing his arms about his chest.

The bouncer silently disappeared and came back with Marillion's coat before tossing it to the young man.

"Never let this prick who calls himself an artist cross the threshold of my club again, Ed."

"Don't you worry, Sir," the bouncer approved, his eyes narrowing.

The door slammed, and Marillion looked around him; it was pitch-dark and the street was quiet, the treacherous layer of snow that covered the sidewalk dissuading the inhabitants to leave their houses. Shuddering, he put on his coat and he suddenly remembered he had left his hat inside the joint, most likely in the wings. It was too late: the bouncer would never open the door now. _Tomorrow, perhaps... If I keep a low profile and ask politely..._ He hated that notion, and hardly envisioned his return to the _Taffeta_ , with his tail between his legs. _It's unfair, I just expressed my opinion. Who cares if I don't want to play for colored singers?_

He slowly began to walk, popping the collar of his coat, wondering how he would pay his rent. After his purchases of the month – new clothes and two pairs of spectator shoes – he was in the red, and he had already promised his landlady he would pay for the two previous months. _I'm fucked up. No money, no gig... Charming festive season!_ As he moved past a group of young men, his footsteps crunching on snow, he mentally counted whatever money he had in his pockets and wondered if he had enough for another drink. _I'm screwed anyway, so why not?_

In the street, he heard the barking of a dog and he lengthened his stride: the nearest club wasn't very far and Marillion had no slate out there. _Or I could go to Myranda's._ He stopped mid-stride, the prospect of spending the night in her splendid apartment forcing a smile out of him. Myranda Royce was one of the richest flappers in Manhattan. _And one of the most promiscuous, as well._ Since her husband had died – while having sex with her, as the story goes – she lived alone and she had one lover after another. Marillion hoped she felt lonely that night; she could accommodate him and lend him some money. _Every woman should be like this good old Randa: buxom, not too shy and filthy rich. Unfortunately, there are too many stupid bitches to my liking, like Alize or Sansa Stark._ These two had made him lose his best gigs: they would pay for it. _Revenge is a dish best served cold, right? And since Viola let me spend the night inside Baelish's brothel when I asked nicely..._

His nose had stopped bleeding, but he was pretty sure he looked like hell. He decided to move Myranda to pity by telling her he had been fighting; he could embellish the circumstances. Wealthy girls like her loved those kind of stories. They loved the idea of mixing with the riffraff and Marillion was ready to give her whatever thrill Myranda Royce looked for. Relieving her of a few twenty-dollar bills would be easy. The street lamps shaped circles of light on the street, like a huge dotted line leading him to Myranda Royce's flat. _Half an hour, maybe twenty-five minutes if I walk quickly._

He saw a tramp huddling in a doorway to get out of the chilly wind and he regretted the hat he had forgotten inside the club. From time to time, the roaring of an engine broke the silence and Marillion envied the passengers who were warm and protected inside their car, while he had to walk on the snow-covered sidewalk.

At the corner of the street, he hesitated, wondering if he should take on the right or not. Shrugging, he turned right and he sped up, eager to arrive at Myranda's place. _Fuck, I'd better hurry up, I'm freezing my balls off._

He realized he had left the broad street for a rather narrow one, where there was no car, not even a sleepy tramp. The cold numbed his senses and he didn't see the massive human form lurking in the dark before it made him fall to the ground.

"What is it?" Marillion shouted, trying to sat up. "Who are you?"

A punch that made the one he had received earlier look like a flick was the only response he got. _Is it the bartender? How could he-_

The stranger pinned him to the icy ground before he realized what was happening. In the darkness, Marillion felt huge hands on his shoulders and long hair brushing his face. _Not the fucking bartender._

"What do you want?" he asked.

His question sounded more like the whining of a pup, but pain and fear made him forget all dignity.

"I'll do whatever you want!"

A dark chuckle escaped the man's lips.

"You can't do anything now, it's too late," he rasped, making Marillion's skin crawl.

"No, no, no... Tell me what I have done!" the young man begged.

With a deliberate slowness, the stranger put his hand on Marillion's neck and began to tighten his grip until breathing became a torture.

"You scared the wits out of the Little Bird," he explained coldly. "Nobody messes around with my girl."


	13. A Coral-Red Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gathered her courage and tried not to listen to her heart beating wildly in her chest.  
> "I just want a proper kiss, Sandor."  
> He considered her for a while, sometimes glancing at her parted lips. She felt the speed of her pulse increase with every passing second.  
> "People never expect me to do something proper," he rasped.  
> The hint of provocation in his tone sent more shivers down her spine.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Viola stormed in to the meeting hall and rushed at Sansa, who was taking Lois' measurements to make her a new dress. Carelessly shoving a still sleepy Lois, she planted herself in front of Sansa, jabbing a finger at her face: "You! You cried and you begged until Baelish fired Marillion!"

Dumbfounded, Sansa remained silent and swallowed hard, clutching to the measuring tape.

"Oh, spare me your innocent gaze, Sansa, I know what you did. You did it on purpose, because you're a pain in the ass," Viola spat. "And now you're glad, because the man I love has been fired and is most likely gone."

 _Gone?_ Sansa's heart skipped a beat and Viola, despite her tears, probably noticed her surprise.

"' _Gone'_ , Viola? What do you mean?" she inquired, panic-stricken, as a bunch of girls surrounded them.

"He was supposed to come here last night, to visit me and he didn't," Viola answered. She chewed her bottom lip, repressing a sob.

"Baelish fired him, Viola," Edna pointed out, rolling her eyes in exasperation. "He wasn't going to show up here. And you're late for the morning rehearsal, by the way."

"Where do you think he spent the night after Miss Stark plotted to get him fired?"

"He sneaked in?" Dorothy exclaimed, while her blond sister Lois looked around to make sure Peitho couldn't hear them.

Sansa gaped. _So he had just tried to rape me and Viola let him come in and sleep in her room which is on the same floor as mine?_ The notion that she could have met him again that night seemed crazy. _Of course, after what he did, he didn't boast about it and he told Viola a different version of his ousting._ Around Sansa, the girls exchanged conspiratorial glances, some praising Marillion's boldness, others clearly disapproving.

"He said he would come here," Viola repeated, sniffing. "He didn't. I spent the night waiting for him and I only fell asleep at daybreak."

"Hence that impression you look like death warmed up," Meg mocked her.

"Well, dear, there could be another explanation," Edna observed, with a lopsided smile. "When a man doesn't show up, that's often because he's cheating on you. Sailors have a wife in every harbor and musicians have a steady in each brothel."

Forgetting about her vendetta against Sansa, Viola threw herself on the tall dark-haired girl and she would have hit her without a second thought, but for Dorothy's intervention.

"He's cheating on you, why don't you admit the obvious?" Edna added, looking at the weeping girl scornfully.

"Says you," Viola retorted.

The argument between the two girls drew everyone's attention, allowing Sansa to ponder on Marillion's sudden disappearance. The last time someone she knew had been reported missing, it was Meryn Trant and the police had found his body in a car thrown in the East River, a few days later. She shuddered at the thought. _Could Marillion be dead too?_ If she had told Sandor Clegane what had happened some nights ago, the answer would be plain. However, she had kept her mouth shut, not to save the young musician's life but to make sure Sandor wouldn't get into more trouble. _Assuming Marillion is not gone but dead, killed by Sandor... who told Sandor about the incident?_

She watched Viola gesturing like a cheap tragedian and Edna looking at her up and down, overdoing the role of the jaded girl. In the end, Viola left, hurrying to her bedroom where she would throw herself on her bed and cry her eyes out. Sansa bit her lip as questions came tumbling out in her head.

"Can we go on, now?" Edna told anyone who would listen, bringing her hands on her hips.

The girls wordlessly resumed their activities, some going on stage, others taking back their needlework.

Lois nudged at Sansa, thus showing her impatience. "Are you going to take my measurements, dreamy girl?" the blond woman asked her. "It takes very little to disturb you, Sansa."

Ignoring her remark, Sansa ran the measuring tape along Lois' shoulders. _I have to know. I have to figure out what happened to Marillion. If he's dead, the police will come back._ As the morning chores seemed to extend themselves endlessly, the idea crept into her head that Marillion wasn't hiding himself from Viola but that he was well and truly dead. She remembered how Sandor Clegane had been suspicious when she had assured him nobody had hurt her. _He knew_ , she realized. _He already knew, but how?_ The only person Sandor knew and who also attended the show that night was Tyrion Lannister; Tyrion was somewhere in the meeting hall while Lothor Brune kicked Marillion out of Baelish's house. _Tyrion doesn't know either..._ _unless he talked to someone who knew what happened._

Pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and her forefinger, she tried to recall the events of that night. Lothor Brune was so secretive she sometimes wondered if he had unlearned to speak; Peitho and Baelish knew what Marillion had tried to do to Sansa, but they would never confess it to a customer who they thought ready to buy the girl's maidenhood. _Who told Tyrion then?_ She saw herself in the entrance hall, disheveled and trying to convince Baelish she had done nothing wrong before Peitho showed up... _That's it_ , she told herself, gaping. _When Peitho arrived, the trumpet player followed her. Baelish asked him if he knew someone who could replace Marillion. He couldn't guess what would happen if he spoke to Tyrion Lannister, which he did at the end of the show. Tyrion asked him why the piano player didn't come back after the intermission and that's how he learned about Marillion..._ She imagined how Sandor had questioned their new ally as soon as he got a chance in the Red Mansion. He wouldn't be satisfied before he knew everything about that night, and the Imp's revelations had sealed Marillion's fate. 

* * *

Sandor Clegane's absence was maddening, or so she believed. She never told herself his visits could drive her crazy too, even if she admitted she did stupid things every time he was around; no matter how silly she became when they were in the same room, Sansa had convinced herself waiting for Sandor and thinking about him in his absence was a kind of torture she inflicted herself daily.

She had never thought his arrival could be a more refined torment until she saw him talking to Viola. The brothel had been closed for New Year's Day – some girls even leaving Baelish's house for the day to pay a visit to their family – and when it opened again on January the 2nd, Peitho told her 'the disfigured war veteran' as the madam called Sandor would come to see her dance.

Sansa had spent the day humming and trying to hide the mix of joy and nervousness she felt, not caring about Viola who had wiped her tears for Marillion and was nastier than ever. Sansa couldn't eat that night and after the early supper the girls shared next to the kitchens, she got dressed, combed her hair and applied mascara on her lashes. That was all he would tolerate and Sansa was so eager to oblige him she gladly shortened her evening routine. She contemplated her reflection in the cheval mirror, growing anxious the moment she imagined his reaction. Was the skirt of her dress too short? When something scandalized him, things often got out of hand. Would he mock the blue headband she wore? _I wish he likes me the way I am. I wish he-_

A sudden knock at her door startled her, since she thought she still had plenty of time before his arrival; she nonetheless hurried on her high-heels shoes and opened the door, hoping he wouldn't notice how flustered she was. Instead of the Hound's solid build, she saw Peitho's lithe form. The madam smiled at her, then frowned ever so slightly.

"I came to tell you we'll need two more outfits like the ones you already made for _'The Sheik of Araby'_. Petyr wants more dancers..." she began, tilting her head, "but why aren't you ready yet?"

"I am ready," Sansa replied, demurely clasping her hands in front of her.

"Without rouge? Without powder? And I can't smell anything which means you don't wear perfume..."

Sansa's eyes closed for a heartbeat and she let out a deep sigh. _Don't blush. Tell her and let's get over with it._

"Well, you always tell me to oblige our customers and that's what I did. Mr Clegane doesn't like makeup and he asked me not to wear perfume."

For some reason, her confession sounded improper and Sansa felt her face grow hot as Peitho stared at her, wide-eyed. When he had told Sansa he didn't want her to drench herself in perfumes, nor hide her features under heavy makeup, they were arguing and it was just hurtful; now that she had to justify herself, she realized the level of intimacy they had reached – Sandor telling her what he liked and disliked about women. Something else struck her mind, while Peitho observed her reaction: any kind of obstacle between him and Sansa's skin – be it perfume or makeup – irritated him.

 _And what about clothes?_ The memories of his touch on her back, since his first visit to her, brought back a strange sensation in her belly and she chewed her lip. He wanted to access her bare skin and that was all.

Peitho finally snorted in disbelief. "Oh, I know that kind of customer," she said, rolling her eyes. "Boorish, uncouth... Some men don't know what they want! Coming to see the most exquisite dancer there is and demanding her not to wear makeup: that's contradictory but nothing surprises me now."

"So did I take the right decision?" Sansa shyly asked, even if she had decided not to apply any lipstick that night.

"Of course, you did. Always give men what they want, even if their taste is questionable."

Visibly convinced Sansa had retained the worst customer that could be, Peitho gave her an encouraging smile and she left the girl.

Once in the precarious shelter her unlocked room provided her, Sansa pressed her back against the door, relieved but still feeling a knot in her stomach. She still heard the usual sounds of an evening in Baelish's house: people coming and going, girls giggling – though their laughter sounded false and fooled no one – until heavy footsteps echoed in the staircase. _It has to be him; it's time_ , she mused, realizing she couldn't help opening the door and welcoming him on the landing.

Even more nervous, she stepped out of her bedroom and swept the landing; Sandor Clegane had just arrived, his tall silhouette hidden by his overcoat and his face half-covered by his long dark hair. Despite the anticipation flooding her at his sight, she froze. Viola had planted herself in front of him and she was talking to him, the way she always talked to customers, smiling and seducing them.

When she saw the girl stepping forward and being so dangerously close to the man she had been waiting for, Sansa felt a pang of jealousy. _How does she dare?_ She had heard Meg and her other companions telling stories about Viola when she wasn't there, whispering how the girl used to steal the others' customers, because she found them 'swell' or just wanted to have fun. _I won't let you steal him from me. He's mine._ Yet Sansa knew she couldn't express her anger without revealing too much.

Horrified, she saw Viola giggling, her cleavage right under Sandor's gaze and she wondered if clearing her throat would be enough to get his attention or if she should slam the door in a theatrical gesture; before she made her decision, he turned to Sansa and locked eyes with her. _At last._ She heard him mumbling something to Viola and he strode to Sansa's door. Viola smirked.

Still shocked, she didn't move and she averted her eyes, trying to process what had just happened. I shouldn't feel so bad, she told herself. _What's wrong with me? He's a man, he has his needs..._

"Won't you let me in?" he rasped.

Only a foot of space separated them and the expression on his face was unreadable. She stepped aside and he pushed the door open. Once inside, she shut the door behind them then stayed still, as if the soles of her shoes were glued to the carpet.

"Good evening," he muttered. "What? The Little Bird forgot her courtesies?"

He was expecting her to help him remove his coat, as she always did, not because he enjoyed to be waited on, but because every physical contact they had – even when she took his coat to put it on the console table – was both a challenge and a reward. Sansa avoided his eyes and wordlessly helped him; she felt his hot gaze on her as she did, then as she walked to the console table and back.

"What?" he urged her. "Why are you mad at me?"

Sansa looked up at him, furious. "Why were you talking to her?" she asked a bit too briskly and hitting the high note. "What did she tell you?"

 _I sound so pathetic_ , she immediately regretted.

He snorted. "Want to know what she told me, huh? She told me that, the day I get bored with your dances, I could always come and fuck her."

Sansa swallowed hard, knowing full well he wasn't lying: the Hound never lost a chance to say the truth even when it hurt her.

"Why don't you accept her offer, then?" she bitterly asked, looking at him defiantly. "Or did you choose to visit her later?"

"I told her I came here to see you," he rasped.

His husky tone made her shiver in her blue dress – or was it the response he had just uttered? Once more, he was telling her the truth, like he had done before by repeating Viola's offer. Hurtful or comforting, he always favored the truth and didn't care about the consequences. Sansa felt a lump in her throat when he tentatively brushed her upper arm.

"My good looks don't interest her," he chuckled darkly. "Girls like her only care for money. I bet she knows how expensive you are and she concluded I was richer than I look. That's all."

 _No, that's not the reason why she did this. Somehow, Viola sensed you're important for me and she tried to hurt me by seducing you._ He probably knew it as well, but neither of them dared voice the idea out loud. _Not yet._

Sandor rolled up his sleeves while she chose a record and he moved the heavy leather armchair until it was next to the phonograph. She didn't need an explanation to understand what he had in mind: he would spend the next hour sitting in this armchair, holding her as he had done during his previous visits and he didn't want her to leave him – even for the short moment she walked to the phonograph, put a record on the turntable and came back to him.

Far from soothing her nerves, that realization and the lust she saw in his gray eyes as he sat down disturbed Sansa even more. She wanted to be in his arms, yet the unreasoning apprehension she felt at the thought she could ruin everything by saying or doing something stupid petrified her. Even the prospect of sitting on his lap was confusing; how was she supposed to behave? If she was too bold, he wouldn't like it and on the other hand, her shyness could deter him.

Sensing her unease, he got on his feet and he gently rubbed her upper arms, before taking her hand. He made her sit on his knees, then, with a swift movement, he pulled her close until her head rested against his chest and her calves were supported by the armrests. Sansa did her best to remember what song she had chosen: she failed, too busy trying to calm down. His smell, even if he had taken a bath before coming to Baelish's house, and the warmth emanating from his skin distracted her, whatever efforts she made to focus on the music. " _I have to ask him. I must._

"There's a man we never talked about," she began, her words exuding nervousness. "A musician named Marillion. The girl you met on the landing says he's missing."

Sandor settled a stare onto her and she swallowed hard, waiting for his answer. "He's not missing," he rasped, his voice showing no trace of emotion. "He's dead."

"Why?"

"He hurt you. That's a pretty good reason."

Her heart pounded wildly in her chest as she tried to hold his gaze.

"The Imp told me what that bastard had done the other night. I said I would protect you," he added, stubbornly sticking to his promise.

Hot tears pricked her eyes and she felt the urge to tell him everything that had happened since his last visit.

"The police came and they questioned me about Gerald Halder and Meryn Trant. They knew Halder and Trant used to come here. Addam Marbrand, the detective, he said I was the last girl both victims had met in Baelish's house. He kept saying it couldn't be a coincidence. He believes I know more than I told him." Words came tumbling out of her mouth. "You risk your life, Sandor. If they discover Marillion's body like they discovered Trant's-"

"They won't. Trust me, they won't."

His long fingers brushed her ribcage, causing goosebumps on her arms. That same hand had killed Marillion and hidden his body somewhere. On his last visit, he had said he would take good care of her and that was how he intended to keep his promise: murdering people and then coming back to her and treating her like the most precious treasure he had. His behavior – pitiless with the men he considered his enemies and tentatively gentle with her – was so confusing she buried the thought away, deciding she needed time to process it.

"Marillion spent the night here after... after the incident, thanks to one of the girls who's in love with him," she informed Sandor, unable to keep that detail for herself. "He would have come back if..."

Realizing she sounded as if she justified Marillion's murder, Sansa stopped short from saying more. Cursing in an undertone, he cupped her chin.

"He can't hurt you. It's over."

The determination she first saw in the way he set his jaw and looked at her slowly disappeared when she leaned into his touch.

"You have to stop this. Please. I don't want you to go to jail," she confessed, boring into his eyes.

Unease brought back the Hound; he snorted contemptuously. "You don't want me to go to jail, because you would be stuck here forever," he growled.

"I don't want you to go to jail, period."

Sansa wished he understood what she meant. _I don't want him to misread my words. He has to realize I'm sincere, even if that's something new for him._ She had run out of ideas and she therefore decided touch would replace the eloquence she never possessed; she rested her head on the crook of his neck. An awkward silence stretched between them and she soon felt the urge to speak, disregarding his contempt for smalltalk.

"How was your day?" she whispered, trying to sound cheerful.

He glanced at her suspiciously. "You don't want to know how was my day," he replied curtly.

The Hound was back once more, sullen and wrapping up his words with disdain. She sighed.

"Of course I want to know what you did," she protested.

"Racketeering, extortion... Oh and I delivered whiskey to a corrupt Prohibition agent this afternoon after accompanying Joffrey to a meeting with the mayor. How does it sound, Little Bird?"

A kind of self-hatred laced each word with bitterness; Sansa remained silent but snuggled up to him, wishing she knew a way to quell his anger. The rise and fall of his chest became more even and finally, she felt his muscles somehow relax, right before the end of the song.

"How was your day?" he asked her after she chose another record to put on the turntable.

She shrugged. "Well, I guess it was an ordinary day. I woke up early so I spent some time reading the book of poetry you gave me, I had breakfast and I helped Peitho doing her hair. During the afternoon, I sewed costumes for the next show and I... I prepared myself for tonight. For your visit."

When she glanced at Sandor she caught his stare – curious and unsettling. _He doesn't know what I'm talking about. He's clueless as to how women ready themselves before going out... or before welcoming a customer in my case._

"What did you do?" he asked her, confirming her guess.

"I- I took a bath," she stammered. He shifted slightly and his eyes darkened as if he was imagining her in a hot bath. _God, this is so embarrassing..._ "Then I got dressed," she went on, her detached tone fooling neither of them. "I applied mascara and I combed my hair. No heavy makeup, like you asked me."

She cracked a smile, trying to forget the lump in her throat as he remained silent, observing the slightest movement or emotion on her face.

"How did you choose that dress?" he asked her.

"That dress? Oh... I like that color. Mother said blue clothes favored me. And I noticed you often feel the fabric; this one's fabric is smooth so I supposed you would like it. Do you?"

Her chirping, as frivolous as it was, elicited no teasing, that time; he was touching the hem of her dress, mindlessly, and he nodded, seemingly uncomfortable.

"It would be easier though, if you choose yourself the dresses you want me to wear. I wouldn't have to wonder if you like it or not."

"Do I look like a fucking expert in woman-fashion?" he retorted, feigning exasperation.

"It could be fun."

Without waiting for his answer, she got on her feet then she spun on her heels to face him, a playful smile on her lips. Being childish and frivolous was exactly what she needed after the tension she had felt during the past few days.

"Please."

He shook his head in disbelief and stood up slowly, unable to understand how his Little Bird convinced him to do something that obviously wasn't his cup of tea, something that was at odds with his routine. Still disapproving, he followed her wordlessly to the large closet and he watched her opening it.

"How does this fucking game work?" he grumbled when she stepped aside.

"I'm not even sure it's a game, Sandor. Pick one dress and I'll wear it next time you come."

"How am I supposed to choose?"

"I don't know... Select a color you like. Try to find something elegant," she advised him.

He rolled his eyes and he mumbled something again, then he stepped forward and let his fingers hovered over the clothes hangers; his gesture was so tentative at first she wondered if he was shaking. As Sansa stood on the side, she observed his movements, trying to guess which clothes he would pick for her. Suddenly, he swiveled his head and caught her stare.

"What? Why are you looking at me this way, Little Bird?"

She giggled, unable to utter a proper response, then her eyes darted away from him. The phonograph went silent and she thanked the Providence for giving her a short respite. A few heartbeats later, as music flooded in the room again, she came back to him who was triumphantly holding out a baby blue dress with long sleeves and a pleated skirt.

"It's not an evening dress," she protested.

"I know. You wore this the day we met."

Sansa almost gaped at the realization he was right; two years ago, when she had arrived in New York with her parents, she wore that same dress. She remembered the excitement she had felt when the train had stopped in Grand Central Station, the trepidation when she had seen Joffrey and Cersei waiting for her family on the platform and the disgust she had repressed when realizing the huge man behind her fiance was burned from hairline to chin on the left side of his face. Joffrey had barely looked at her that day, but two years later, Sandor still recalled the dress she wore.

"You looked good in that dress," he confessed, absent-mindedly.

 _Maybe. I wasn't your little bird at that time; I was just my parents' spoiled little girl and I thought I would live forever happy in New York._ Sensing her unease when he alluded to her past, he put the dress back in the closet. _Did you fall in love with me that day or did it take some time?_ she wondered, as he stared at the hangers.

"Oh, I found the perfect dress for you when Sweet Sister or whatever you call that Russian prick shows up."

He turned around, smirking, and showed her a black dress she had worn only once for a funeral. It was a long, shapeless dress Catelyn had bought for her after Jon Arryn died. _So 1921_ , she mused. _Mother wanted me to look dignified: I looked like a scarecrow. That dress is a disgrace to humanity._ Sandor chuckled and so she did.

"You're impossible, sometimes," she commented, as he put the black dress away.

Sansa watched him as he contemplated the closet full of dresses of all kinds, still uncertain. The level of intimacy they had reached was something completely new to him and the game she had initiated – if it ever was a game – propelled him to one of the most secret parts of her everyday life. It was not an invitation but a demand to share more closeness with him. _'I want to share everything with you, including the most futile moments of my day'_ : was it the message she sent him, while asking Sandor to choose a dress for her?

Sansa chewed her bottom lip, staring at his big hands rummaging through the delicate fabrics, feeling the velvety jersey and the silk. She blushed uncontrollably when he glanced at her, before retrieving another hanger from the closet. Brow furrowed, Sandor scrutinized it and Sansa identified the coral-red dress Baelish had offered her the day she had learned Meryn Trant was missing. _That awful, never-ending one-to-one with Baelish._

"Where's the back?" Sandor asked her.

Sansa sighed deeply, folding her arms with annoyance. "It's an open-back dress. Baelish bought it for me but I don't wear it."

"Because Baelish offered it to you?"

"Probably. And because of the open-back. I'll never wear something like this. Give it to me, please."

She extended her arm, ready to take the hanger and to put the dress away but he was quicker: he kept the hanger out of her reach and bored into her eyes.

"What? You don't mean..." She chuckled nervously, realizing her little game turned against her. "Alright," she said, lifting her hands in acquiescence, "if you want me to wear this dress next time you come, I can- I can make an effort."

As he came closer, she had trouble holding his gaze.

"You think you can teach me patience by telling me you'll wear it next time? I never was a patient man. Why don't you put it on now?" he challenged her.

His even tone and the absence of mischief in his eyes proved he was serious; Sansa found that she had no choice but to comply. She took the smooth red fabric from his hands and slowly walked to the bathroom where she locked herself.

 _What's happening to me?_ she told herself, observing her reflection in the mirror and gaping at the sight of her red cheeks. _Things always get out of control when he's here. Sober or drunk, it doesn't make a big difference._ She cautiously removed her headband before undoing her dress. _Maybe it's even worse when he's sober, because nothing explains his behavior._ Frowning at the sight of the red fabric she had left on the bathtub rim, she unhooked her brassiere, removed it and slipped on the silken dress. Sansa reluctantly spun on her heels to look at herself.

The mirror showed her a girl with bobbed hair and bangs, whose red dress contrasted with her pale complexion. She bit her lip while combing her hair, wondering what he would say, if he ever condescended to say something – his silences were sometimes more difficult to understand than his fits of rage. _I should go, he's waiting for me_ , she told herself, hearing the beginning of a new song – all percussion instruments, it seemed.

She opened the door the same way she used to do when she was a child sneaking out of her room at night, when Father and Mother had guests, and for some reason she couldn't explain, she peeked out before coming back in the bedroom. Across from the door, Sandor was sitting in the armchair and he looked at her. She expected him to stand up or to say something but he let her take a few steps until a foot of space separated them.

"So, what- what do you think?" she stammered, cracking a smile.

Still silent – was it deliberate or not? – he let his eyes roam over her, making her shiver in her red dress. "You're so fucking beautiful," he finally said, shifting in his seat.

She felt the urge to look at her elegant high-heeled shoes. The few words he had just uttered erased the compliments Berdokhovski showered her with, and the remark, as straightforward and coarse as it was, ruined all her Russian customer's efforts. The goosebumps on her skin were still visible when he stood up, despite her attempt to regain her composure.

"You should have a look at yourself," he rasped, motioning her to the cheval mirror with an incline of his head.

Sandor on her heels, she walked around the bed and she stopped in front of the mirror. The silken dress showed her ankles and her feet. The waistline was low, bringing out her hips, and the cleavage barely revealed the top of her breasts. The straps, though they were wider than on most of Sansa's dresses, left her upper arms bare, and she wished she had put on long gloves. She mentally shrugged; Sandor didn't care about gloves and he was shamelessly watching her back. _What's the matter with my back? Does he always watch the women's back? Perhaps I should have asked Evie. Perhaps I don't want to know._

"Do you like the dress?" she asked him.

He nodded silently, brushing her left shoulder with the pad of his thumb. The jolt of his touch made her shiver again and she turned to him. Sandor stood by the mirror, not in front of it and she guessed he seldom looked at his reflection because of his scars. _He's wrong; he doesn't see what I see._ What she saw was a man whose uncommon build kept her awake at night, a man she was determined to protect, if she could, by lying to the police, a man she wanted to fly away with, though a change in their plans now included a spoil sport named Tyrion Lannister.

"Come," she whispered, taking his hand.

At first, when he positioned himself behind her, he carefully avoided his reflection and he instinctively combed his hair so that it covered his scars – a reflex meant to prevent her from seeing the ruined half of his face. Instead, he looked at her back and ran his hands down her arms. _I'm going to faint. I swear I'll faint if he doesn't stop._ The crackling sounds at the end of the song broke the spell and he stepped back, letting her walk to the phonograph.

Frustration flooded her, because she wanted something to happen that night and she was pretty sure Sandor was ready too. _He won't make the first move_ , she thought, sweeping the box full of records. _I don't know if that's because he convinced himself I would spurn his advances, but he won't make the first move._ All of a sudden, she saw a sleeve with the depiction of a woman wearing a rather large hat. _'Do It Again', music by George Gershwin._ She hesitated, recalling the lyrics of the song that was now almost a classic in Broadway. _I've got nothing to lose_ , she told herself, placing the record on the turntable. She resolutely turned to him when Irene Bordoni began to sing.

_Tell me, tell me, what did you do to me?_

_I just got a thrill that was new to me,_

_When your two lips were pressed to mine._

Eyes widening, then visibly trying to collect his senses, he watched her.

"I didn't choose at random," she informed Sandor, shaking like a leaf and wishing he didn't need long explanations before she finally got him to understand.

_When you held me, I wasn't snuggling._

_You should know I really was struggling._

_I´ve only met you, and I shouldn't let you, but..._

_Oh, do it again._

_I may say, "no, no, no, no, no,"_

_But do it again._

He stepped forward, keeping his gray eyes on her and he planted himself in front of Sansa.

"I never kissed you. I would remember it if I had, drunk or not," he stated.

"I know. I thought you had, but now I know I was wrong. Anyway, I-"

The rest lost itself in the lyrics Irene Bordoni seemed to whisper.

_My lips just ache_

_To have you take_

_The kiss that's waiting for you._

_You know if you do,_

_You won't regret it._

_Come and get it._

Sansa gathered her courage and tried not to listen to her heart beating wildly in her chest.

"I just want a proper kiss, Sandor."

He considered her for a while, sometimes glancing at her parted lips. She felt the speed of her pulse increase with every passing second.

"People never expect me to do something proper," he rasped.

The hint of provocation in his tone sent more shivers down her spine. _I don't know what I'm going to do if he doesn't kiss me before the end of the song_ , she mused. Her hands behind her back grasped the edge of the small table supporting the phonograph.

"Oh, please," she said, rolling her eyes, "you know what I mean."

One more step and he was flush to her, cupping her chin and almost panting. His hot breath washed over her as she hesitated, wondering if she should put her arms around his neck or on his chest. In the end, he pulled her close and began to breath her in; Sansa felt the tip of his nose on her temple, her cheeks, her jaw line before his cracked lips dared touch her cheeks and finally claimed her mouth.

There was something clumsy in the way he pressed his lips against hers and she chided herself for being so tense when he stopped to catch his breath. As he laid his forehead upon hers, waiting any sign from Sansa to resume their kiss, she felt an odd sensation deep inside her. Of their own accord, her lips parted for him and Sandor began to nibble at them, eliciting tiny moans that only spurred him.

Momentarily stopping, he made her step back until her shoulder blades rested against the wall next to the French window. He towered above her and probably found it unpleasant, for he lifted her in his arms and claimed her lips once more, flicking his tongue against her teeth until she opened her mouth for him and let him deepen their kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, then, eager to look at him, she brushed aside the strands of dark hair that covered his face. Eyes closed, he seemed to focus on their kiss, breathing her in and pressing demanding lips on her mouth. _He never kissed me. I would remember, if he had, I would remember the sensation, the thrill..._

She slowly relaxed under his touch and she thought she wasn't that clumsy when he finally stopped flicking his tongue against hers and ended their kiss as he had begun, by brushing his cracked lips on Sansa's. He still held her tight, seemingly anxious to let go of her and she told herself he was a fool to believe she could run away from him after that. She caressed his good cheek and she felt the itching of his beard under her fingers; she stole a glance at his chest, then at his now relaxed features and finally back at his broad shoulders. _He's mine,_ she thought. The unspeakable pride she felt at that moment filled her with happiness and when he opened his eyes, she gave him a tentative yet encouraging smile.

None of them dared talk nor move until the song ended. Sandor didn't try to hide his reluctance as she escaped his arms to find another record; he stayed next to her all the time, staring at her, his labored breathing reminding her of their kisses. After she pushed down the tone arm, so that the needle grazed the record, Sansa turned to him. The lust she read in his eyes didn't frighten her anymore. _I need to see this_ , she mused, biting her now swollen lip; the sensation brought back the desire to be in his arms. The warmth she felt on her cheeks and her wish to let everyone know he had kissed her made her open the French window, despite the icy cold and the drop in temperature these last days.

On an impulse, she looked at him defiantly, stepped out and enjoyed the crunch of snow under her shoes. She couldn't help smiling when she felt his presence behind her, then his hands on her bare arms. In the cold night of January, she beamed at the invisible passers-by and at the street lamps, relishing the fainting ache on her lips. _He kissed me. I'm not even sure I have to ask to make him stay tonight._

The acrid smell of cigar tickled her nostrils and she instinctively turned on the right. The nearest balcony was Peitho's and the madam's French window was open as well, the curtains barely moving with the drafts. Thanks to the light inside Peitho's room combined to that of the nearest street lamp, Sansa could see wreaths of smoke hanging in the air, suggesting whoever smoked that cigar was right behind the curtains. _But Peitho doesn't smoke cigars – she hardly smokes cigarettes – so it has to be Baelish..._

The notion he could see her with Sandor startled her and she would have run away instantly if he had not prevented her from doing so. Wrapping solid arms around her waist and pulling her close, he kissed the top of her head while watching – she could have sworn it – Baelish leaving his hiding place to take some fresh air on the balcony. _I'm sure he heard the music coming from my room through the open window and he wondered what was going on_ , she told herself, scared to death and wishing Sandor would let go of her.

"Where do you think you're going, girl?" he rasped in her ear, tightening his grip.

The slender man who owned the brothel swiveled his head, he saw them but remained silent, holding his expensive cigar in the air.

"Baelish," Sandor greeted him curtly, then the man replied by a mere nod.

Something in Sandor's tone suggested he was grinning maliciously, amused and perhaps aroused by the situation. Understanding she couldn't wriggle away from him, even if she wanted to, she surrendered herself to the tall man standing behind her. _It's alright. Sandor is here with me and Baelish can't do nothing about it. He can't-_

Sandor buried his nose in her short hair, then, with a deliberate slowness, his lips brushed her neck, her jaw line and she even felt his tongue teasing the spot behind her ear. _He's doing it on purpose_ , she realized, half-heartedly protesting. _He wants Baelish to know what's happening between us._ On her right, Peitho's lover took everything in and, though Sandor's hands and lips offered her more distractions than she needed, Sansa noticed Baelish's anger.

She couldn't help moaning when Sandor's kisses became more urgent; her reaction spurred him and he possessively grasped her hips. At that point, she didn't know if Baelish still observed them and she didn't care. Sandor's hands wandered on her, brushing the side of her breasts. She wanted to turn and to face him, so that they could kiss, but he shook his head while kissing her neck.

"No, not like this," he trailed off, panting, and he grabbed her hips again.

Her heart pounding wildly, she reached out to touch Sandor's cheek, arching her back. The sensation in her belly was more acute, that time, and she realized she had never experienced something like this. Despite the cold and the awkward notion of being watched while Sandor fondled her, she felt strong and able to resist Baelish next time he threatened her. _And I don't want Sandor to stop._ Sansa knew she was doing something unladylike, but she arched her back all the same when his long hair brushed the crook of her neck. He grunted his approval in her ear, then he crushed her against him, letting her feel his need.

To her great embarrassment, as she would recall later, she wasn't shocked and she protested by no means. _What is he going to do next?_ Was the only thought she could focus on. She had a vague idea of what she could have expected once inside her bedroom if they were free to do as they pleased. _Am I ready, though?_ Another tiny moan escaped her lips as he trailed his tongue down her neck, but that didn't mean she was ready. Telling Sandor she needed time would be embarrassing at the least. At the same time, she doubted a man who had waited for her signal to dare kiss her would force himself on her like a brute. _I just have to tell him._

"Sandor," she called softly, opening her eyes to find Baelish was gone and Peitho's French window was now closed – whether Baelish had been exceptionally discreet or them particularly inattentive, Sansa couldn't tell. He stopped his ministrations and she listened to his ragged breathing for long seconds before she dared tell him "Perhaps we should go inside."

The cold bit her now, though he held her tight; he mumbled something in acquiescence and he led her to the bedroom. He carefully closed the window while she took a shawl and gathered her courage to talk to him. Before she could utter a single word, he turned away and he walked to the bathroom.

The clicking of the lock surprised her: Sansa stared at the wooden panels of the door, trying to process what had happened. Thanks to Peitho's lessons about men and what the madam called their needs, Sansa had quite an idea of what he could be doing behind the door. She was the reason why Sandor had locked himself in the bathroom and she was in a flutter as well. The wetness between her legs proved it. _Just keep calm and try to think._

The phonograph was silent again, and she picked another record, while pondering on the situation. Sansa wanted him to stay that night and she hoped he wouldn't walk away from her because he was embarrassed or frustrated. _I'll tell him I need him here. That's all I can do._ When the door opened, he looked sheepish and he seemingly hesitated between shyness and feigned anger. _This is so much like him_ , she thought, taking a few steps.

"Stay," she whispered, ill-at-ease. "Spend the night here."

He snorted. In the ordinary fight between the Hound and the good man she sometimes caught a brief glimpse of when he visited her, the Hound had won – or so he told himself.

"After what I did to his protegé, I can't believe Baelish didn't kick me out already!"

"As if he could kick you out," she said, planting herself in front of him.

He chuckled darkly. Talking to him when he was uncomfortable was like walking on thin ice: kind words could be counterproductive and cause a sudden fit of rage – simply because all this was new to him. Touching was much more efficient: she took his hand in hers and squeezed it.

"I was willing," she reminded him. "I'm still willing."

Voicing it out loud made her realize she was indeed willing. Sansa averted her eyes and looked at the copper-colored horn of the phonograph, somewhere on her right. With each passing second, she feared the large callous hand escaped hers, but such a thing never happened. The tension she felt in his fingers at first vanished and that's how she understood she had convinced him.

"Why do you want me to stay?" he asked her in earnest.

She turned to face him again and she swallowed hard. "For the same reason I asked you to kiss me," she whispered, looking up at him.

He scrutinized her as if he couldn't believe she was for real; his gray eyes widened and when he set his jaw she dreaded the Hound was coming back. Forgetting about his hand, her fingers brushed his wrist and his bare forearm.

"Are you going to stay?" she asked him, soft-spoken to conceal her insistence.

"If you want me to," he offered. 

 _Though I can't figure out why you're so stubborn_ , his eyes said. Seeking comfort, Sansa snuggled up to his chest, waiting for his arms to find their place around her waist. A large hand pressed to the small of her back and the other one stroking her hair, he cradled her.

"I'm a fool."

"Yes, you are," she mumbled against the collar of his shirt.

She didn't need to cast a glance at his scarred face to know that he was slightly frowning, before an imperceptible chuckle shook his ribcage. Tension and lust had disappeared, giving way to tenderness and she spent the rest of the hour in his arms, both sitting on the armchair, Sansa across Sandor's lap.

"Baelish wants to sell my maidenhood on my nineteenth birthday," she said abruptly, as he kissed the crown of her head. "In March."

"The end of the month," he added. "On the 25th, right?"

She nodded, surprised he knew when her birthday was, before adding in a whisper: "Tyrion Lannister said we would escape that night, that he would buy... whatever... I'm scared. All this... that stupid party Baelish wants to organize, our escape on my birthday... it seems crazy."

He cupped her chin and locked eyes with her, his gray pupils more serious than ever. "The morning after your nineteenth birthday, you'll be free."

"And so will you."

He nodded. "And the fucking Imp. Don't forget the fucking Imp."

She rested her head in the crook of his neck. "When's your birthday, Sandor?"

No matter how commonplace her question was, he almost jumped.

"My birthday?" he grunted. "No one wished me 'happy birthday' for a very long time, Little Bird."

"But when is it?" she insisted.

"My family didn't really celebrate birthdays. No birthday cakes, no presents..."

She sat up. "When? You have to tell me when it is," she said, noticing his sudden nervousness.

"Why? You intend to make me blow out candles or something?"

"Is it such a big secret?" she teased him. "You don't want to tell me how old you are?"

He rolled his eyes and sighed deeply.

"Mother always told me I could kiss someone if it was their birthday," she added innocently.

"Is that so?" he chuckled. "Didn't seem to me that you waited for a special occasion to kiss me."

She flicked his fingers. "You're being mean. If kisses aren't good enough for you, I'll... think of some present."

The devilish grin on his twisted lips made her realize 'present' didn't have the same meaning for them. She swallowed hard when he tightened his grip on her waist, glancing at her lips.

"In two weeks' time. On Thursday," he told her. "I'll turn 31."

Sansa nodded solemnly. "In two weeks' time. Good."

"Speaking of presents," he said, hardly hiding his embarrassment, "I almost forgot what I wanted to give you."

She got on her feet, then he pushed himself from the armchair and he walked around the bed to take a parcel wrapped in brown paper he had kept in his coat. Once he came back to her, she noticed the same uneasiness he had shown the day he had offered her stolen books from Cersei's library.

"It's for you," he rasped, giving her the parcel.

The sisal twine and the clumsy gift-wrapping were unmistakable: she smiled and teared open the parcel with a childish joy. Under the brown paper, she discovered a book which dust jacket showed an elegant couple: a young woman was fanning herself while a man wearing a tuxedo seemed ready to whisper in her ear. Right above, the title intrigued Sansa: _This Side of Paradise._ She removed the shreds of brown paper still covering the book.

"I bought this one," Sandor explained her, the information forcing a smile out of her. "They say the author comes from Saint-Paul, just like you. That's why I chose this book. What's his name, again?"

"Francis Scott Fitzgerald," she read on the dust cover. "I've heard about him in Saint-Paul, though we never met."

She looked up at Sandor, delighted, and she threw herself in his arms, mumbling her thanks. "You should save your money, Sandor... You spent money to come here tonight-"

He raised his hand to cut her off. "I bought the book, but this visit is courtesy of the Imp," he rasped.

"I've changed my mind," she said playfully. "Tyrion Lannister is not such a bad person after all... Oh, and you have to write something for me inside, like a dedication," she added on an impulse. "That's what people do when they offer books to each other."

Her question confused him and he shifted from foot to foot when she gave him her fountain pen. Opening the book, he thought for a while, brow furrowed before writing down something and holding out the novel to her. _"This Side of Paradise: we're far from it, right?"_ His dreadful writing, his questionable choices when he decided to buy a present or when he dedicated it, all these details made the man standing in front of her more attractive. She bit her lip, ashamed by the thoughts creeping into her mind.

Twenty minutes later, Sandor pretended to leave her and he almost bumped into Baelish who seemingly waited on the landing, next to the flight of stairs. Observing the scene from the doorway, Sansa felt both exhilarated and scared, in case things turned bad between her boss and her so-called customer: Sandor smirked and challenged Baelish, yet nothing happened. It was when the Lannisters' henchman disappeared in the entrance hall that Baelish walked to Sansa's door and prevented her from closing it. Glaring, he shoved the door and came in uninvited.

"What the hell happened here?" he hissed.

He wasn't shouting, as if he didn't want anyone to know he was in her room. _Is it about Peitho?_ Sansa wondered. _Is it because he's here to spend the night with her, instead of keeping a close eye on me?_ When realizing he was leering at her, pleased to notice she wore the red dress he had bought in one of the most expensive shops in town, she crossed her arms in a self-protective gesture. _Don't weaken._

"You told me I could do whatever I needed to keep my customers coming and handsomely paying for my services. I just obeyed!" she protested.

Baelish fumed and she feared he could hit her. _The Luger is in the drawer, only a few feet behind_ , she reminded herself. He pointed at her, his face distorted by frustration.

"I was this close to knocking down your door and kicking him out," he spat.

"I was just fine. Why did you stay outside if you were so concerned?" she heard herself ask.

Maybe the anger she had bottled up since the day she had been locked in his house suddenly spoke for her, like some fury feeding on her disillusions and avenging her. Baelish arched an eyebrow, confused by her boldness, and he took one more step.

"He touched you. He pawed you as if you were his."

"You told me you sold these men the illusion I could be theirs, and that's exactly what I did. He's pleased and he'll come back. I thought it was what you wanted," she retorted a bit stiffly.

Red with anger, he kept pointing at her, visibly choking on words. A few seconds later, he had regained his composure and his gaze made her skin crawl.

"You'd better stay a virgin until I sell your maidenhood, if you want to keep this bedroom and your pretty dresses! Did his hands wandered in places they should stay away from?" he asked, taking a step further.

His question was so disturbing Sansa needed time to collect her senses; he noticed her confusion, though his frowning indicated he didn't know how to read her widening eyes and crimson cheeks.

"I thought I was being obedient!" she protested. "He told me he would come back. Isn't that what you want me to do? Make people come back?"

As their heated argument went on, she hit the high note; she noticed his nervous glances towards the door and she understood he somehow feared Peitho's reaction if the madam knew he was in Sansa's bedroom.

"But how is it possible that he keeps coming back?" Baelish hissed. "He doesn't have money!"

"I don't know," she lied, without a second thought. "I don't know and I don't care."

That was exactly the kind of answer Peitho would have given him, rolling her dark eyes and pouting. Sansa didn't try to impersonate the madam, but her remark infuriated Baelish all the same. He had seen how she reacted to Sandor's touch on the balcony and that was enough for him. "He's a henchman!" she exclaimed. "He rubs shoulders with all kinds of people. God knows how he found that money, but as far as I know, your business is as illegal as his."

He glared at her.

"Do you want me to tell him not to come again?" she added. "Or is his dirty money good enough for you?"

"You sound like Ned Stark, now. Remember how your father died. Remember I saved you from a cruel death, girl..."

Sansa swallowed hard, fighting back tears.

"The Dog can came every night if he wants, as long as he pays, but he will never have you. Make sure he stays in the armchair next time and dance for him, but you obviously don't need to do more than that to get his attention."

His gray-green eyes narrowing, he looked at her for a while before leaving her wordlessly. She had hardly enough time to go to the bathroom, change clothes and slightly open the window for Sandor. Her blue dress and the brassiere she had left on the bathtub rim were on the floor, offhandedly tossed by the man who had locked himself in the small room, one hour earlier. The notion that Sandor had touched her clothes while doing something she couldn't voice out loud disturbed her as she slipped on her nightgown.

Everything was quiet in Baelish's house when Sandor stepped over the window ledge, bringing dirty snow inside. The morning after, Rose would chide Sansa for being so careless, but now, as he removed his cap and his overcoat while observing how her silky nightgown made her look slender, the old woman's reproaches didn't matter. As usual, he carefully blocked the bedroom door with a chair and he obstructed the tiny hole above the console table with his folded overcoat before turning to her. Standing next to the four-poster bed, she locked eyes him and she breathed in sharply.

"I removed the pillows that were on your side of the bed," she explained, suddenly uncomfortable.

She had been staring at him for a while and she wondered if he was aware of her boldness. Her remark puzzled him, for he gave a long look to the side of the mattress where he was supposed to sleep. Sansa's thoughtfulness was another example of the intimacy they now shared, though kisses and a few caresses were all that had happened between them. _'Your' side of the bed? Perhaps it's too much, too soon_ , she mused.

Her heart skipped a beat when he silently came closer, took her hand and led her to her side of the bed. Sandor pushed the blankets for her; when she sat down, he lowered himself and he removed the slippers from her feet. The jolt of his touch made her shiver with anticipation, although something in his behavior told her nothing more would happen that night. Looking up at him, she slipped under the covers, while he walked around the bed. The mattress sank when he sat down on the edge of the bed, removing his shoes, then his waistcoat. Finally, he laid down beside her and extended his arm to turn off the bedside lamp.

"No. Wait," she whispered.

Rolling on her side, then sitting up, she contemplated his large chest and deftly unbuttoned his shirt, ignoring his feeble protestations. It was something strange, and completely new for her, to undress a man, even though she only wanted him to take off his shirt. She repressed a frustrated sigh when she felt the fabric of his undershirt; when she reached his middle, Sandor's muscles tensed under her fingers, but he didn't resist. _That's better_ , she thought, marveling at the sight of his torso, though the undershirt covered most of it. Ignoring his insistent gaze, Sansa pushed aside the white fabric of his shirt and she snuggled up to him.

As she shyly put one hand on his waist, she became aware of how warm his skin was. He didn't move, though and he seemed straight as a ramrod. That same man whose heart beat too fast – she heard it now that his chest pillowed her head – had gripped her hips possessively one hour earlier. As he shifted, seemingly uncomfortable, she regretted what she had done and she feared she had gone too far; however, when his breathing became more even and when a tentative hand wrapped her waist, she knew she could relax. He turned off the bedside lamp and his other hand found its place on her back.

The Hound had finally surrendered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to my friend Underthenorthernlights who beta reads this story.  
> All the comments readers sent me are priceless and keep inspiring me! Thank you for that!


	14. Le rose del volto gia sono pallenti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oddly enough, I found out that tenors are not the kind of singers I like best. I remember I once saw Rigoletto, and the Duke's voice, as beautiful as it was, didn't move me at all. No one seemed to pay attention to Sparafucile, yet his voice struck me."  
> "Sparafucile?" Tyrion repeated. "You mean the assassin? The one who kills Gilda in the end?"  
> "That's him. Only a bass can play his part and his voice had something... I don't know," Sansa confessed. "I have loved bass ever since."  
> "How can you love a raspy voice?" Baelish inquired, sincerely curious.  
> "I guess I find bass both sad and intriguing," she replied. "Somehow very attractive."  
> While the other ones wondered if the intermission was over, she glanced around her shoulder and she caught Sandor's gaze. His eyes had widened as she talked about opera singers, innocently at first, then realizing she could take advantage of their idle talk to send him a message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot to my beta reader, Underthenorthernlights, who makes all this story... readable.  
> Thanks a lot for all the positive feedback I received lately: your messages keep inspiring me!

In the middle of the night, Sandor shifted and whatever movement he made disturbed her sleep. Sansa protested feebly, stretching her limbs and snuggling up to his chest at the same time.

"Go back to sleep," he whispered, pulling up the blanket to her chin.

Sandor's voice awoke her for good. A thick darkness surrounded them and everything was silent in Baelish's house but his voice – husky and unmistakable though he spoke in hushed tones – roused her and she pressed her head against his side, listening to his breathing.

"You can't sleep?" she asked after a while, mumbling against his undershirt.

"Don't worry about me, Little Bird."

Though she couldn't see anything, she propped herself up as if she wanted to look at him; she shrugged the blanket and suddenly felt the cool air of the bedroom on her shoulders.

"What's on your mind?" she asked again.

As soon as she voiced her interrogation out loud, Sansa realized the man lying next to her had plenty of things on his mind. Their escape, the murders he had committed, the police investigation, all these notions swirled about in his head, like black flies, preventing him from getting to sleep.

"Nothing that should keep the Little Bird awake," he sighed.

His limbs were most likely numb, for he rolled on his side, mirroring her attitude. His hot breath washed on her; that closeness brought back the memories of the previous night and Sansa felt the urge to kiss him. She groped, trying to cup his chin but when she leaned in to put a kiss on his lips, she miserably failed and only reached his hooked nose.

"It's alright," he said, repressing a chuckle, then claiming her mouth.

Their kiss was tender, yet the darkness – combined to her lack of experience, she told herself – made it clumsy. In the end, after exploring her mouth until she gasped for air, he nibbled at her lips like he had done before, spurred on by Sansa's tiny moans. She didn't need to see his face to sense he restrained himself and it somehow hurt her.

"Go back to sleep, now," he said, patting her shoulder through the silken nightgown she wore.

 _Confide in me_ , she begged him silently, burying her face in his neck. _If you're worried or I did something bad, I want to know what it is._

"I won't sleep before you tell me what's wrong," she replied, slipping her hand between his shirt and his undershirt.

"Stubborn Little Bird." There was a silence and she wondered if he would answer or not.

"Tell me," she insisted.

"Littlefinger talked to you before I came back, right?"

 _How does he know?_ Sansa wondered. In daylight, he would have seen her eyes widening in surprise and disbelief; he most likely felt her fingers tense on the fabric of his undershirt.

"But-" she managed to say.

"Don't lie to me. This bastard threatened you, because that's what scumbags like him do when they're pissed off. They threaten the weak ones when those who can stand for them are away. Until someone stops them."

His tone was so ominous that Sansa shivered: misreading her reaction and blaming it on the cold, he rubbed her arm.

"Sandor, you can't keep doing this," she told him, her voice quavering. "You can't kill someone else."

"Even if he hurt you?"

Disbelief laced each syllable with a sort of suspicion. Who was she to tell him what to do, after all?

"Baelish didn't hurt me," she explained.

He shifted again, his nervous movements revealing his anger despite his efforts to hide it. "Of course not. He didn't hurt you, he just intends to sell you like some filly. And he wants to fuck you afterward, if he can."

Thanks to the darkness, Sansa didn't need to hold in her disgust. Seeking comfort, she buried her face in his neck again.

"If you kill someone else who works in this place, or comes here as a customer, the police will connect the dots," she explained. "Marbrand is smart and therefore dangerous."

Removing her hand from his middle, she tentatively brushed his cheek, feeling the uneven surface of his left side – slick flesh and cracks. He quivered under her touch.

"We live in a huge city, Sandor, but how many men can knock down someone like Meryn Trant? How many people can handle bladed weapons? They're already looking for someone like you: tall, gifted for fighting and handling weapons. With each victim they get closer to you."

"That prick – Marillion – is not a customer and they'll never find his corpse. Marbrand's investigation did not progress since he found Trant's body."

His recklessness was something she couldn't understand; she shook her head as he wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. "So that's how you reason about these murders?" she countered. Sansa was shocked he seemed to believe he could kill with impunity. "The police won't find you, so you can... go on and kill more people?"

Sandor didn't answer but he tightened his grip on her shoulder; she imagined his scowl, the tension bringing out the fixed grin and she repressed a shudder.

"What am I supposed to do when Baelish threatens you like he did?" he asked her curtly.

"Nothing. Because killing him will send you to jail. You dodged a bullet when they found Trant's body. And it's not over."

He shifted again. "I'm supposed to protect you."

His remark made her melt. _Sometimes, his stubbornness is appealing_ , she mused, immediately chiding herself, because he reacted as if murders were just as normal as wrapping a blanket around her when she was cold.

"Behind bars, you can't protect me, Sandor."

"Speaking of protection, are you protecting Littlefinger?" he snorted.

"I'm trying to help you, to prevent you from risking your life."

Under her fingers lingering on his burnt cheek, Sansa felt his jaw tense. Sucking in a deep breath, she came nearer and kissed his lips fervently. He didn't reject her but he didn't respond to her kiss either.

"Promise me something," she said, confused by his lack of reaction. "Promise me you will be by my side the day I leave this awful place, promise me I will escape with you, because that's what I want. I need you."

He shushed her by a kiss so urgent and so demanding she soon needed to catch her breath.

"Promise me you won't kill anyone," she urged him, as he tried to nibble at her bottom lip. "If you kill Baelish, the police will know and-"

He stopped kissing her, out of breath. "I don't make promises. Promises are for fools."

"Consider the consequences of another murder, then, and make a sensible choice."

Sandor's forehead laid upon hers and she relished the tenderness in his gesture. "I suppose I can do that," he whispered, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear.

"Just picture me escaping alone with Tyrion Lannister," she suggested.

"Good point. You can't run away with the fucking Imp. You'd knock him out before getting on board," he chuckled.

A tiny laughter escaped her lips. He told her to go back to sleep and she finally relaxed in his arms.

* * *

She woke up again when he removed his arm from her waist, doing his best to leave noiselessly. It was still dark and she didn't understand what he was doing.

"What is it?" she slurred, rubbing her eyes.

"I have to go. It's early, though. You can sleep a few more hours."

The mattress moved under his weight and she guessed he was sitting on the edge of the bed, probably buttoning up his shirt and putting on his waistcoat, on the evidence of the rustling of fabric she heard. Sansa crawled to the other side of the bed and she turned on the bedside lamp, even though the electric light made her blink. He was just the way she imagined him, bending over to put on his shoes. When he sat up straight and glanced around his shoulder, she repressed a mocking smile at the sight of his sleep-matted hair.

 _No matter how disheveled he looks, he smells good_ , she thought. _Well, he doesn't smell of Cologne, but I love his smell._ _It makes me want to be in his arms again._ Sansa propped herself up with pillows then stretched her back.

"If it's early, why don't you stay? A few more minutes," she begged.

Sansa had no idea about the consequences that fitful sleep had on her looks: she imagined her ivory nightgown was rumpled and she thought her hair was a mess. By the way he leered at her, she understood her tousled hair didn't bother him and when he removed the pillows from behind her back to make her lie down, all her doubts vanished. He climbed on the bed to lean over her, taking his time and watching how she shivered in anticipation, then, coming closer until his hair brushed her face, he contemplated her lips.

"I have to go before daybreak. It's safer," he nonetheless explained, as if he wanted to convince himself, rubbing his unshaven cheek.

On an impulse, Sansa licked her lips and she pushed aside the strands of dark hair that prevented her from seeing his features. _His hooked nose, his cracked lips, his gray eyes_ , she listed for herself. _When he looks at me this way, I feel like I'm going to pass out._ The moment he began to run the tip of his nose on her cheeks, she grasped his arms and pulled him closer.

At first, he only nibbled at her lips, seemingly enthralled by the way they became swollen under his touch; he stopped, glancing at her, and he resumed his ministrations until she let him explore her mouth, slowly to begin with, and then eagerly when she moaned. Was their kiss deeper than the one they had exchanged the night before? Sansa wondered if she was less clumsy or if Sandor's impending departure made their embrace more passionate. In any case, when he hovered over her, she gave in to the odd sensation in her lower belly.

All of a sudden, he stopped, panting, and he sat up. Sansa knew the darker shade of his eyes and his ragged breathing proved he wanted her; that realization disconcerted and thrilled her at the same time. Instead of looking at her parted lips, like he had done previously, he let his eyes roam over her, and he stared at her cleavage. Following his eyes, Sansa glanced at her chest and felt her cheeks grow hot. From where he was, he could see the top of her breasts; to her great embarrassment, her thin nightgown revealed her hardened nipples.

Her first thought was to hide under the blankets, but she resisted, eager to know what he would do if she let him feast his eyes on her. Sansa felt the speed of her pulse increase as Sandor shamelessly looked at her breasts, most likely wondering if he could stay any longer or if he had to go. In the end, reason prevailed and he stood up, ready to take his coat that rested on the console table.

Helplessness and frustration washed over her: he was leaving again, silent and locking himself into his inner thoughts. Still lying flat on her back, she swiveled her head until her cheek rested on the mattress – she couldn't possibly take her eyes off of him – and she sighed deeply. She sometimes found him so different from her it was difficult to understand his reactions. Other people tried to school her into their ways of thinking: Peitho and the girls joyfully urging Sansa to become one of them, Berdokhovski spoiling her because, in his world, women always depended on men. Sandor didn't advise her – at least not like the other ones did – nor did he try to change her habits. He didn't tell her what he wanted, what he expected from her, thus becoming the more disturbing and compelling mystery she had ever tried to solve.

"When do you think you'll come back?" she asked him, swallowing hard.

Maybe she was wrong, as he had left behind the halo the bedside lamp provided to reach the console table, but she had the impression his shoulders slumped. _What does it mean?_ Sansa wondered, growing anxious. He slowly turned around, his face remaining in the dark, thus unreadable.

"I don't know."

His words were artless and even, something that always disturbed her. The plain truth sometimes hurt her more than she could say, especially when it came from him and when it expressed his reluctance.

"I sleep well when you're here," she whispered, then burying her nose in the sheets that were still warm and smelt of him.

 _I sound like a stupid little girl_ , she chided herself, still ignoring what to say to make him come back sooner. He snorted; far from reassuring her, the crooked smile she saw on his face when he stepped forward increased her consternation.

"No woman ever told me this," he chuckled. "And just so you know, telling a man you sleep tight when he's here is hardly a compliment."

She looked daggers at him and he repressed a laughter, eager not to awake the other inhabitants of Baelish's house.

"When?" she asked him, biting her lip. "You can sneak in. I'll open the window in my bathroom every night."

He took another step forward and looked down at her, making her wriggle uncontrollably. _Come back soon. Please._

"I'm quite busy," he said, his gray eyes roaming over her again. "Besides, the Little Bird is better without me. Littlefinger probably told you so. He saw me fondling you, he knows I won't stop at caresses."

It was like playing cat and mouse. One moment, he was kissing her and right after he walked away or he became again the rude, pitiless man she feared in the Red Mansion. His mask of self-hatred, whenever he insisted on his terrible flaws or on his misdeeds, kept disconcerting Sansa. _Why does he pretend I'm better without him? He's blind if he doesn't see I want this. All of this._

"I come back, I sneak in and I lurk, like I already did, and what?" he spat. "I'm not one of those well behaved, honorable young men you met before. I don't stop at kisses."

His dark eyes wandered on her, leaving a trail of goosebumps on her skin. Her older self would have probably got on her feet to take his hand and to beg him, but her stay in Baelish's house had already changed her and she understood her best chance was to let him look at her as she laid in the huge, unmade bed. Sandor took one more step, thus confirming her sudden flash of intuition.

"I never asked you to stop at kisses," she said in an undertone, holding his gaze.

This remark – an understatement compared to the wild thoughts that crept in her mind at that moment – was at odds with the polite, demure girl Catelyn and Ned Stark had raised, a girl who daydreamed about Prince Charming. Sandor stared at her for a while, then turned around and walked away; the bathroom door creaked and a muffled sound informed her he had shut the window behind him.

Realizing he was gone, she helplessly banged her balled fist on the mattress and she began to cry.

* * *

Suddenly, the comings and goings of the other girls with men took a different meaning and she stopped averting her eyes during the next show, when Lois sat on a regular customer's knees. _There are things I can learn, I guess_ , she told herself, observing the blond woman's facial expressions and the way she laughed at the less than funny jokes the man whispered in her ear. Lois managed to get the man's attention and to keep it effortlessly, it seemed, and Sansa felt a pang of jealousy at the sight of the blond girl confidently smiling and tilting her head back while the customer looked at her, mesmerized. _Why can't I hold Sandor's attention? Why is he so reluctant when I ask him to come back here?_

"You seem quite contemplative, dear," she heard Tyrion Lannister say, across her.

She gazed at him instantly and she donned her best smile, though she knew the Imp was no sucker. The intermission had just begun and Baelish had led her to the Imp's table for two, front-and-center; she was sitting across him, absentmindedly plucking the petals of the red carnations adorning the small table. Crimson heart-shaped petals were now scattered across the snow-white tablecloth. As Tyrion Lannister still impressed her, she had avoided his gaze while on stage and she had kept looking at a spot somewhere above him: it was much more difficult not to stare at his fresh scars when Baelish forced her to share a moment with him.

With a sigh, he shook his head. "You know Littlefinger keeps a close eye on us," he warned her. "I can feel his concerned gaze on me. Unless you want to ruin our cover, you'd better pretend you enjoy my company."

"I was thinking," she trailed off, vaguely bored by Tyrion's lecture.

Grinning, he leaned forward and brushed her hand with his short, twisted fingers. "What's on your mind, dear?"

"Have you been talking to Sandor, lately?" she asked him abruptly.

"The Hound," he whispered. "Here, among eavesdroppers, he's the Hound. And yes, I've been talking to him, if threatening me to cut my balls and feed the ducks at Central Park with, in case I do anything else than playing my part with you is what you call a conversation."

Sansa rolled her eyes and caught a glimpse at Edna who flirted with a customer and struck a little dancing pose. Pretending that she took great pleasure in listening to the Imp was more than she could handle that night.

"Why don't we do something that will... surprise and thrill Baelish," she suggested, boring into his mismatched eyes.

"What do you mean?"

Mirroring his attitude, Sansa leaned forward until her head was inches of the Imp's scarred nose. "We could... I don't know... We could go upstairs and resume our conversation in my bedroom."

Her seductive grin didn't fool Tyrion Lannister; after a short while, he smiled back and even chuckled. _Baelish will be pleased when I'll exit the meeting hall with the Imp trotting about behind me_ , she mused.

She uncrossed her legs, pushed herself from her seat, then smoothed the skirt of her silvery dress and crossed the room, Tyrion Lannister hot on her heels. As Lothor Brune gave her an inquiring look, she nodded reassuringly and she let the other men do a double-take when she walked past them. Head-high, she stared at the heavy doors until she reached the end of the meeting hall and opened them; she barely paid attention to Tyrion who shut the doors before almost running behind her in the entrance hall. They silently climbed the stairs, ignoring the pair who was already engaged in heavy petting and she led him to her bedroom.

Tyrion swept the large room once she turned on the lights; he only turned around to face her when he heard the sound of the door she had closed. Finally, she could stop pretending she was looking for someone to buy what Peitho modestly called her 'first night'.

"What's the matter with Sandor?" she asked Tyrion, folding her arms.

His jaw dropped in astonishment before he could answer her question. "Well, I was about to ask you the same, dear Sansa. What's the matter with the Hound?"

She glared at him, though she couldn't tell if the stupid nickname the Lannisters gave Sandor or his unsatisfying reply annoyed her most. Sighing, she decided to try something else.

"What does he say about me?" Her question exuded concern and all traces of amusement vanished on the Imp's face.

"Frankly, Sansa, do you picture him confiding in me?" he asked her bluntly. "It's not only that Clegane and I were never good friends... All these years, he has kept quiet, never talking to anyone... He's not going to open up now."

Sansa winced uncontrollably, thus startling Tyrion and making him change his mind about her question.

"I guess it must be terrible for you if you dare ask."

She nodded wordlessly, fighting back tears and she sat on the edge of the bed. Tyrion came closer, stopping beside Sansa.

"All I learned about you and him, I learned it by... observing his reactions," he confessed.

His honesty – something she'd never expect from a man who was after all Joffrey's uncle and Cersei's brother – moved her deeply and she soon regretted her cutting remarks about him. _I was judgmental; now I wish I could take back the things I said. The day Sandor had asked Tyrion Lannister to lend him some money, he had made the best possible choice._

"Just tell me what you want to know," Tyrion told her, nudging her encouragingly, "and I'll do my best to answer you."

Eyes downcast, she sighed deeply. "He- He doesn't say what he wants. I have these... feelings for him and I never know how to behave when he's around."

Silence stretched in the large bedroom until muffled sounds of people climbing the stairs and laughing made Sansa raise her eyes; Tyrion seemed uncomfortable and she then rued her habit to complain whenever something wasn't in accordance with her wishes.

"Oddly enough, I think... he suffers as much as you do," Tyrion offered. His unhurried tone revealed his hesitation and she guessed he weighed his words. "You have every right to say what happened to you during the last months was unfair: most people don't experience so many painful changes in their entire life. That being said, your losses and your arrival in this place turned Clegane's world upside down."

He paused and Sansa's eyes wandered on his ugly, scarred face framed by blond curls.

"For everyone, before your parents died, you were Joffrey's fiance. I think you were a bit more for him. You were the breath-taking red-haired girl he saw daily in the Red Mansion. You were the epitome of innocence. You were out of his reach. And one day, you became Baelish's protege, you ended up in a brothel. Never underestimate the shock he had when he got the news, Sansa, because he then questioned the one thing that never changed since he reached adulthood: his loyalty to my family."

As Tyrion Lannister went silent, probably thinking about his own betrayal towards his father and siblings, the thoughtful look she noticed on his face moved Sansa. Shaking his head as though he wanted to remove the thoughts, Tyrion locked eyes with her again.

"So... he began to visit you and he offered to help you escape. The two things he took for granted had dramatically changed: you were not out of his reach anymore and you lived in a place where you would inevitably lose that innocence he found so compelling. Some of us don't cope with changes. In the Hound's case, he expected you to reject him, like he's been rejected since he got his scars. And... you've changed, since the day you arrived in this place. You're not the shy girl I met when you arrived in New York with your parents. You're stronger, bolder too. He has a hard time whenever he thinks about you dancing for your customers. Not to mention the customers who dare touch you, hence his recent outbreaks of violence."

Her eyes widened like saucers. _Is it possible that he knows about the murders?_ Tyrion's features didn't show any trace of tension, as if he had processed the news for a long time. He held her gaze and cracked a smile when he understood what she was thinking.

"I'm referring to the murders, dear."

"When did you learn about-" Sansa didn't even manage to finish her sentence.

"To my great embarrassment, I only connected the dots after I told him what that stupid piano player had done to you. His reaction was clear enough and I suddenly figured out how Meryn Trant had ended up in the East River."

"You could have stopped him, then." She sounded reproachful, but he shrugged.

"To be honest, Sansa, nothing could have stopped him. He needed to hunt down and to kill this man... Believe me or not, the world is better without Meryn Trant. Even my beloved father confessed he didn't trust Gerald Halder."

Sansa couldn't hide the utter shock she felt. "Are you justifying these murders?"

"I don't think so. These murders happened and nothing we could do will bring back the men Clegane killed. There's something we can do, though: make sure these murders served a better purpose which is your safety and your escape. Our escape. So whenever you wonder about-"

Hurried footsteps in the staircase shushed Tyrion instantly and they exchanged a surprised glance; someone knocked at Sansa's door and she jumped when recognizing Baelish's voice.

"Sansa? Are you there? The intermission is over!"

Sensing urgency and irritation in his tone, she stood up abruptly but Tyrion snatched her wrist.

"Let me handle this, will you?" he whispered.

She nodded and composed herself before opening the door to Baelish. The man who owned the brothel hardly hid his disapproval, even in front of a wealthy customer like Tyrion: he scanned the room, eyes lingering on the bed and then he looked Sansa up and down, until Tyrion decided to make fun of his inquisitive attitude.

"What do you have in mind, Littlefinger?" he snorted. "Do you think your protege would lose her cherry during the intermission? Come on! Am I not an honorable man? Don't you know a Lannister always pays his debts?"

Tyrion visibly enjoyed the situation, despite Sansa's uneasiness. Her cheeks grew hot as Baelish moved his eyes between herself and Tywin Lannister's youngest son, glaring.

"Won't you lighten up?" Tyrion asked Baelish.

"I certainly will as soon as Sansa tells me why she left the meeting hall," he countered. "You have three more songs to sing, dear."

Sansa opened her mouth to explain why they were upstairs, but Tyrion was quicker.

"Oh, we played a little game and, as your protege unfortunately lost, she had to do the dare!"

Grinning, Tyrion tried to wrap his arm around Sansa's hips; his arm wasn't long enough but his strength, when he pulled her close, surprised the girl. Baelish was still in the doorway and his fake smile didn't fool them; in the end, Tyrion walked away and went downstairs, telling Sansa he couldn't wait to see her on stage again.

"What did you have in mind?" Baelish spat, as soon as Tyrion couldn't hear them.

"As I told you when Mr Clegane came the other day, I just did my utmost to respect your instructions! I thought that was what you wanted!"

"Do I have to remind you what happened the last time you left the meeting hall during the intermission?"

Sansa chewed her lip. "I'm sorry. I swear I won't do that again. But I know Tyrion Lannister and he would never do... something like that. He's a good man."

Baelish let out a deep sigh and his features somewhat relaxed. "What about the dare?" he nonetheless asked her, jutting out his chin.

She thought of all these girls who had lived in this house and sold their bodies to survive. Some had tried to coax Baelish to have a bigger room or pretty dresses. Some had failed and some had succeeded. Sansa guessed the ones who got what they wanted were the girls who gave Baelish the impression he could control them. _He always thinks I'm so easily swayed, so docile. Let's give him what he wants to see in me._ Sansa looked at him, sheepish, and she puckered up.

"I'm so sorry. I did it without meaning harm. I thought you would be pleased."

Under his gaze, she probably blushed, but that was exactly what he expected from her. He nodded and stepped aside so that she could shut the door and go to the staircase.

Baelish didn't follow her, though he said it was late and she had to hurry; Sansa realized it on her way to the meeting hall, as her high-heeled shoes clicked on the tiles. She didn't hear his footsteps behind her nor the typical creaking of the wooden staircase; in fact, the faint laughter and the murmuring of the audience inside the meeting hall was all she could hear. Vaguely nervous, she glanced around her shoulder: he was observing her, leaning against the wooden railing of the staircase. His unsettling gaze struck her and she understood why Sandor's concern was well-founded. _Baelish wants me for himself. His greed and the prospect of being handsomely paid the day he'll sell my maidenhood is the only thing that prevents him from sneaking in my bedroom at night._  

* * *

Peitho had drenched herself in perfumes, more than she usually did, if possible. _Oak-moss, bergamot, and rice powder_ , Sansa mentally enumerated, as she went down the stairs, holding on the guardrail.

Sansa wore new shoes and so did the madam, whose black embroidered beaded dress fell to her ankles, revealing the most exquisite evening pumps. An incredible fur coat was the finishing touch to her outfit; Sansa ignored what kind of animal had been killed so that Peitho could swagger in the streets, but its honey color perfectly matched the blond woman's hair. As usual, when there was a special occasion, Peitho's makeup enhanced her beauty and she wore her finest jewels – dangle earrings with rubies and an amazing tiara Sansa had never seen so far.

"Let me have a look at you, darling," Peitho cooed.

Sansa playfully spun on her heels.

"No, no, remove that coat, I want to see your dress."

The girl obeyed silently. Her clothes were less spectacular than the madam's; when she took off the black coat Catelyn had offered her daughter weeks before her death, Peitho saw a peach, flimsy dress Sansa sometimes wore while on stage. An imitation pearl necklace and a headband completed her outfit, her new peep-toe shoes being the only eccentricity she indulged herself.

"Why don't you wear these jewels Petyr offered you?" Peitho chided her. "The sapphires."

Sansa shrugged. "I'm not about to sing in front of important customers, we're going to the opera. I'm fine. Mother wouldn't even allow me to apply lipstick or to wear such a flimsy dress to go to the opera, so I think I'm dressed up."

Peitho let out a sigh and tilted her head. "You're not a girl of eighteen looking for a husband, now," she said, coming closer and helping Sansa put on her coat again. "You're trying to get as much attention as you can, remember? Maybe we'll see that Tyrion Lannister. Or Andrei."

"Did Mr Baelish tell you what opera it is?" Sansa inquired, feeling a sudden urge to change the subject. "I forgot to check in the newspaper."

The madam rolled her eyes. "As if Petyr cared about opera! He bought tickets so that we can meet important people, that's all, dear. I just hope it's not some German opera. I can't stand German composers, I don't know why!"

The creaking of a door made them turn around: Baelish already wore his tuxedo and his overcoat when he left his office; he planted himself in front of the two women, grinning.

"What a lucky man I am! Look at yourselves... You're stunning, both of you!"

Sansa's forced smile wasn't very convincing, so she stepped back, hoping Baelish would focus on Peitho's conspicuous outfit. What she feared had just happened: she had chosen her dress and her jewels with the greatest care – even asking Evie's advice – because she didn't want to compete with Peitho. Baelish nevertheless compared her to his lover; she could tell it from the way he moved his eyes between them. Mortified, she did her best to ignore him until they heard a feminine voice somewhere above them, in the staircase.

"What a lovely family!" Viola exclaimed, smirking. "Tell me Petyr, do you intend to give your arm to your current lover or to this orphan who looks as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth?"

Baelish glared at the young woman and Sansa wished she could vanish into thin air. When Viola talked about family or when she mentioned his 'current lover', she meant to harm Peitho: the gorgeous woman standing next to Sansa was aging and she knew it. Sowing discord between Peitho and Sansa would only be a side effect of her remark.

"Can we please go, now?" Peitho asked Baelish, tugging at his sleeve.

Deliberately ignoring Viola who went downstairs with unhurried movements, the madam steadied her gaze to the front door and she walked away. The ride to the Metropolitan Opera would be a long, silent one.

* * *

From the box Baelish had booked for the three of them, Sansa had an unobstructed view on the orchestra seats, where elegant men and women took place. After weeks locked inside Baelish's house and after so many dramatic changes in her life, the red and gold decoration of the Metropolitan Opera House impressed her like the first time she had come there with her parents. The sophisticated atmosphere and the notion she was in one of the finest opera houses of the world thrilled her; she was about to spend a whole night listening to music – Verdi's classic _La Traviata_ , according to the program – and an ecstatic smile lit up her face.

Once she thoroughly read the program, she began to pay attention to the surroundings of the box she was sitting in. Each balcony, from the parterre to the upper tier, was carved and gilded; people slowly found their seats and chatted, while the musicians in the orchestra pit tuned their instruments. Sansa loved that moment, right before the overture, when the frenetic violin bows allowed her to imagine that the most extraordinary show was going to begin.

When she glanced at her companions however, she noticed how Baelish stared at her and it suddenly dampened her spirits: she was glad Peitho was sitting between them. The madam, on the contrary, seemed thoughtful and worried; staring into space, she dogeared the program. _Is she brooding over Viola's mean remark? I wish I knew a way to comfort her._ Although she wanted to reassure Peitho, Sansa felt like Viola's verbal attack had sapped the madam's will. Viola had touched a raw nerve, by insisting on the possible competition between Baelish's lover and his new protege so that Sansa's intervention – as kind and as attentive as it may be – would most likely be a failure, because it precisely came from the girl Peitho suspected to be her rival.

The opera they were about to watch narrated another kind of rivalry: a young man, Germont, torn between his respectable family and his love for Violetta, a fascinating and not-so-superficial courtesan, who finally sacrificed her feelings for Germont. Sansa knew the shady world of prostitution had inspired some operas – like Massenet's _Manon_ which irritated Peitho, or _Madama Butterfly_ \- yet watching such an opera now that she lived in a brothel was something entirely new and it made her uncomfortable.

Seemingly tired to stare at Sansa, Baelish retrieved his opera glasses from his pocket and he began to watch the spectators who sat in the most expensive boxes, craning his neck to see what was going on on his left. _He's so bad-mannered sometimes, behind his varnish of style._

As a music lover, Sansa knew the Metropolitan Opera House had been built thanks to a bunch of wealthy industrialists who were rejected from the Academy of Music by the 'old money' families who lived in New York. The subscriptions allowed them to have private boxes ever since; among these families who founded the Metropolitan Opera, the Lannisters figured prominently – though they didn't earn money by bootlegging when rich New-Yorkers laid the foundation stone. Sansa had sat in the private box they owned during her engagement to Joffrey: she remembered where the Lannisters' box was located so the moment Baelish turned his opera glasses to this place, she felt shivers running down her spine.

"Oh, here they are!" he exclaimed and Sansa had just enough time to see Joffrey sitting down next to his fiance Margaery Tyrrell.

Tyrion Lannister clumsily settled on his seat to chaperon the young couple while Sandor stood in the darkest corner, next to the door. _Oh. He's here._

As if the conductor had been waiting for the Lannisters' arrival to begin, all the lights switched off and a silence fell in the huge golden auditorium. Sansa loved Italian operas – perhaps not as much as her mother did, but Catelyn had certainly passed on her love for Italian music to her – and the first act was a string of bravura pieces. The rather creative directing made spectators laugh when Violetta, the Parisian courtesan, opened her closet to put away the pair of high-heeled shoes her current lover, Baron Douphol, gave her as a token of his protection: said closet was filled with shoes from top to bottom, just like people imagined a flapper's closet, and a tiny chuckle escaped Sansa's lips.

With the lights-out, she could easily focus on Verdi's music and on the singers' voices; once the intermission began, her eyes darted away from the stage to look at the box where Joffrey and his new fiance were sitting. She didn't know if she was jealous of Margaery Tyrell: after all, Joffrey had been so cruel it could only be a relief to know that someone else drew all his attention. And Margaery, with her gorgeous emerald dress exposing her cleavage – against all the trends of fashion since several years, if Sansa remembered what she had keenly read and seen in _Vogue_ and _McCalls' Magazine_ – was good at getting Joffrey's attention.

"Rather tasteless, don't you think?" Peitho whispered in her ear. The madam was so close to Sansa the girl almost bumped her nose against Peitho's cheek when she tilted her head to the side. "These girls who come from the South..." Peitho went on, rolling her eyes and letting out an indignant sigh.

For a second, one could have imagined the blond woman who was sitting in the armchair next to Sansa, her back very straight, wasn't born thousands of leagues away, in Ukraine – _God knows where_ , Sansa thought, recalling what Berdokhovski had told her – but in the upper circles of New York. Peitho's natural tendency to adapt herself to her surroundings – mirroring the habits, the values, the language, even the speech mannerism of the people around her, like a chameleon – was one of the reasons why the madam, despite their differences, kept fascinating Sansa.

People began to leave their seats, some lazily stretching their limbs while others hurried outside as electric light flooded the auditorium; beside the two women, Baelish started to show signs of impatience.

"I should try to find Tyrion Lannister," he informed them, nervously beating time, though the musicians had all left the orchestra pit. "If I don't find him, I'll talk to Joffrey, at the very least. Are you coming?"

His question was most likely directed to Sansa but only Peitho replied.

"I really need to stretch my legs," the blond woman answered him, smiling and holding out her gloved hand so that he helped her get on her feet.

"Sansa?" Baelish asked her.

The girl shook her head politely, not wishing to compete with Peitho again, let alone to face Joffrey if Baelish managed to talk to him.

"I think I'll stay here."

Her answer was rather bold, as she knew Baelish had taken her to the opera so that potential customers could see and admire her. He arched an eyebrow, but he nevertheless left with Peitho without insisting further. Relishing the short while of privacy and silence the intermission gave her, Sansa scooted to the edge of her seat and leaned forward to take a look at the orchestra seats.

The first time her father had bought some tickets for the Metropolitan Opera, she had watched Figaro and Susanna's comings and goings from one of these seats below her. Her mother wore her favorite necklace and her father seemed perfectly relaxed, during that night, and Sansa wondered if she had seen him happy again afterward. _Father_ , she thought, feeling her chest constricting. She then raised her gaze and contemplated the boxes of the upper levels: the auditorium's dimensions were so uncommon she believed the singers on stage felt dizzy when facing the audience.

The door unexpectedly opened and Sansa rued whatever reason that made Baelish come back so soon; ready to play her part, though, she glanced around her shoulder and she stayed still for a few heartbeats, with her mouth agape. Sandor – for it was him – was closing the door then turning to her.

"What are you doing here?" she heard herself ask, surprised by his recklessness.

Instead of answering to her less than warm greeting, he took two long steps forward, yanked her wrist to pull her close and, with one swift motion, he pinned her to the wall. They stood there, in the darkest corner of the box, and Sansa wondered for how long they could go unnoticed; the golden decoration of the auditorium made it bright as soon as the electric lights were switched on and anybody on the opposite side of the orchestra seats could spot them.

Understanding her concern, Sandor stepped aside and gave a look at the wall lamp next to the door. Taking a sharp intake of breath, he deftly unscrewed the bulb and the box went black. Though he had gasped at the hot bulb, he turned to her with a triumphant smile: they could see each other, thanks to the light provided by the other electric lamps, but people wouldn't see what was happening in the now dark box. Silently gazing at her, Sandor planted himself in front of her and he cupped her chin.

A few days ago, their sendoff had been rather cold and painful – at least for her – so she welcomed his unexpected tender gesture and she beamed at him. He swallowed hard and in the dim light, his Adam's apple going up and down suddenly became one of the most appealing sights she had seen in a while. The tension between them increased as they said nothing and stared at each other, wondering who would make the first move. Sansa breathed faster, her heaving chest obviously mesmerizing the man who towered above her; it made her feel powerful and fragile at the same time, because she didn't know what would happen if Baelish or Peitho found them together. The consequences made her feel giddy – or should she put the blame on Sandor's intoxicating smell? – and Sansa looked up at him, chewing her bottom lip. She couldn't help doing this childish gesture, yet the moment her teeth dug in the sensitive area, she recalled Peitho's lecture about it: it was a silly habit, unworthy of a grown woman and she should get rid of it quickly, especially if she didn't want to apply lipstick every ten minutes.

Sansa didn't know what the man staring at her thought of a girl who spent her night retrieving her lipstick and her powder compact from her clutch, but she doubted her compulsive need to chew her lip when she was nervous bothered him; he ducked his head to kiss her, setting aside her considerations about Peitho and the use of makeup. _I was stupid_ , she thought, _I was so stupid to think he wouldn't come back to me. As usual, he's taking risks to be with me just a few minutes._

They both were out of breath; Sandor stopped nibbling at her lips, his fierce look and his possessive hands on her hips reminded her how much he yearned for her. She nevertheless felt the urge to point at his mouth.

"I- I'm sorry. It seems that..."

Her vermilion lipstick had left traces on his cracked lips and the war veteran who scared Peitho suddenly looked like a boy who had voraciously eaten some tomato macaroni cheese bake. She repressed a chuckle and began to wipe his mouth with the handkerchief he had just given her. The lust she saw in his eyes thrilled her when he returned the favor, cleaning the red traces on her corner of her lips.

"You should look at yourself," he rasped.

They kissed again, unhurriedly that time, and Sansa tried to make conversation while he pecked her mouth.

"How much time do we have?" she asked him, fingering his hair.

"Not much. Hmm, I should go." He nevertheless stayed as if his feet were glued to the floor.

"What are we going to say if they find us?"

"Don't know, girl. You should probably say the Big Bad Hound was threatening you," he growled.

 _The Big Bad Hound?_ She liked that notion, though it didn't do justice to the man she had come to know. _I guess I met the Big Bad Hound the night I wore that stupid costume of Little Red Riding Hood. That night, he really scared the wits out of me and I even fancied myself kissed by him in a corner of my bathroom._ She let herself go when he kissed her, enjoying being so close to him and letting his fingers dig in her flesh when he held her waist. The moment he pulled away from her, slowly exhaling, Sansa understood they had to part.

"When?" she asked him, panting.

There was no need to give him more details: he was well aware she wanted to know when he would visit her again – no matter how he planned to come in Baelish's house. As he didn't reply immediately, she opened her clutch to find the lipstick and mirror that would restore her appearance.

"I don't know."

His husky tone while he watched her applying rouge on her lips made her feel warm all over. _I'm crazy. He drives me crazy. His presence is so intoxicating I could forget my good manners and become as wanton as any other girl in the brothel, which is not what he wants._

He kept staring at her behind the curtain of his dark hair, observing how she puckered up to cover her lips with a thin layer of makeup. _That's something he's not used to_ , she remembered, a bit ill-at-ease.

"If I don't wear lipstick when Peitho and Baelish come back, they'll know something happened," she explained.

"I know. I'm not judging you."

Sansa gave a quick look at her reflection in the tiny mirror of her powder compact before glancing at him and only did she realize he wasn't wearing the black tuxedo that seemed to be the male spectators' uniform. Being with Joffrey Baratheon was enough to avoid the opera dress-code, in all likelihood.

"So, tell me. When?" The clicking of her powder compact punctuated the end of her question, giving it a sense of urgency.

"Alright. I'll come next Thursday."

He casually shoved his hands in his pockets, as if it was just another visit, as if his birthday wasn't next Thursday. _And I promised him a gift. And now that we're kissing whenever we get a chance, he probably won't stop at kisses._ They looked at each other silently and they both walked to the door.

Like in the auditorium, the corridors leading to the boxes were decorated in red and gold; Sandor had peeked into the corridor to make sure nobody could see them before leaving the box, Sansa on his heels. He had hardly shut the door when they heard hurried footsteps. Sansa dug her nails in the soft surface of her clutch and she held her breath until Tyrion's short silhouette appeared on their right.

"Joffrey and Baelish are looking for you," he told Sansa. Concern made the Imp's facial scars even more visible.

"But why?"

"I don't know, dear. Let's pretend you were with me during the intermission."

As a couple moved past them, Tyrion decidedly took her hand and led her to the staircase, ignoring Sansa's frantic glances at Sandor; the latter followed them, becoming again the sullen and intimidating henchman who worked for the Lannisters.

"Do you enjoy your time at the Metropolitan Opera?" Tyrion asked her quietly.

Small talk seemed derisory if she was about to meet Joffrey and she had difficulty in regaining her composure. She therefore mumbled incoherent words and Tyrion squeezed her hand in a desperate attempt to reassure her. Couples and small groups of people filled the staircase and they snaked between the elegant spectators who looked hard at them as soon as they saw the unlikely pair Sansa and Tyrion formed.

At the bottom of the stairs, Baelish spotted them and he grinned, waving at Tyrion. Sansa sucked in a deep breath: Joffrey was next to him. The conversations echoing in the staircase seemed suddenly louder and her ears rang; she nevertheless held Tyrion's hand as they kept going downstairs. All too soon, they reached the landing where Joffrey and Baelish waited for them and Sansa wondered if the two men could sense her panic.

Joffrey was as fair-haired and smug in his black tuxedo as she remembered him and he gave her a skin-crawling look; Baelish had his obsequious smile she rarely saw when they were in the brothel, but which was as important as his bow tie or as his shiny shoes when he met the Lannisters. She donned her best smile to greet Joffrey, trying to ignore the sadistic spark in his green eyes.

"I'm not sure I like that new hairstyle," he commented, pointing at Sansa's bangs. "That being said, you look less like a lady and more like a prostitute, so I guess it's fine."

For a heartbeat, Sansa felt humiliated but her concern for the tall man who was standing behind her prevailed and she wished he wouldn't do something stupid. Tension increased in their small group as Baelish looked slightly annoyed by Joffrey's insulting remark, so much that a couple on Sansa's right gave them an inquiring look.

"She's not a prostitute," Baelish told the young man. His voice exuded the mix of irritation and wounded pride a storekeeper would feel if a rude customer questioned his goods' quality. "Not yet. She only dances. I see to that."

His untactful response shocked Sansa more than she could say and Tyrion sensed her unease for he interposed himself at once.

"You criticize Sansa's looks but tell me who send her to the brothel she now lives in, my dear nephew?"

"I did," Joffrey confessed without any trace of remorse. "With reluctance. I had another plan for her."

Joffrey glanced at her again, grinning madly. _I don't want to know what he planned for me before Baelish convinced him to do otherwise. Maybe Baelish didn't lie when he said I had a narrow escape._ Her nails dug deeply in her clutch, until her knuckles went white.

"Do you intend to buy her virginity, uncle Tyrion? Assuming she's still a virgin..." Joffrey went on.

"I can assure you-" Baelish protested, before Joffrey stared him down.

"And why couldn't I?" Tyrion exclaimed. "I may be ugly and distorted, but I think this girl would enjoy her night with me. I'm not _that_ distorted, nephew."

As they glared at each other, Sansa felt sick: they all talked about her as if she wasn't there, treating her like a piece of meat. Though he remained perfectly silent behind her, she felt Sandor's anger growing with each ticking second of the huge clock above them. He couldn't react, couldn't do anything for her at that moment and she knew his helplessness infuriated him even more. She guessed he would do something stupid afterward, like drinking more whiskey than was necessary to knock down any other man. Maybe he would fight, once in his cups. _Just because he hates himself_ , she mused. _He knows that putting Joffrey in his place would be foolhardy, but he will blame himself for letting him insult me._

Sansa looked at the circle they formed; her former fiance – her former master, she should say; her current master who stroked his black beard with a bored look on his face and who intended to take advantage of her; the ugly man rejected by his wealthy family who told everyone he wanted to buy her virginity, but who prepared his flight from New York. They all embodied a part of her life: Joffrey was her past, full of tears and disillusions; Baelish stood for her present in the brothel and her future could be full of men like Tyrion who used their money to get affection. The only man she wanted to be with stayed in the background, ignored by the other ones.

"What were you doing with them, Dog?" Joffrey asked Sandor, recalling the henchman had arrived with Tyrion and Sansa.

 _Dog._ The moniker scandalized Sansa now, bringing an involuntary scowl on her face.

"I ran into your uncle and the Little Bird when they were upstairs," Sandor curtly answered. "I reminded her of her courtesies: she was supposed to come and greet you instead of hiding herself."

With that, he shoved her forward and she hardly regained her balance; she couldn't help glancing at Sandor with a frown. _This is crazy_ , she thought. _He's forced to be rude with me not to put our cover at risk._

Peitho's arrival alleviated the tension: Joffrey most likely was aware of the blond woman's profession, yet she was the kind of person who knew how to tame arrogant young men like Sansa's former fiance. He didn't mock Peitho and even smiled back at her.

"Are you all enjoying the show?" she asked them all.

Despite Peitho's efforts to make conversation, the three men stayed silent and Sansa felt like she had to come to the madam's rescue.

"The singers are perfect, really. Does anyone know where the soprano comes from?" As no one replied, Sansa added: "Which singer do you like best, Peitho?"

"Hmm, I guess Violetta is my favorite. She's so moving. What about you, Mr. Baratheon?"

"Frankly, I didn't really pay attention," Joffrey said without trying to conceal his boredom. "I only came here to oblige my fiance and we're rather busy up there." He grinned and that smile meant to hurt Sansa only reminded the girl what kind of monster she left behind the day she had moved to Baelish's house.

"The tenor – the one who plays the part of Germont – he's fantastic!" Peitho exclaimed. "I bet you like him too, Sansa. Girls always like leading men."

The girl shook her head and she turned slightly on her left as if she wanted Tyrion to be a witness.

"Oddly enough, I found out that tenors are not the kind of singers I like best. I remember I once saw _Rigoletto_ , and the Duke's voice, as beautiful as it was, didn't move me at all. No one seemed to pay attention to Sparafucile, yet his voice struck me."

"Sparafucile?" Tyrion repeated. "You mean the assassin? The one who kills Gilda in the end?"

"That's him. Only a bass can play his part and his voice had something... I don't know," Sansa confessed. "I have loved bass ever since."

"How can you love a raspy voice?" Baelish inquired, sincerely curious.

"I guess I find bass both sad and intriguing," she replied. "Somehow very attractive."

While the other ones wondered if the intermission was over, she glanced around her shoulder and she caught Sandor's gaze. His eyes had widened as she talked about opera singers, innocently at first, then realizing she could take advantage of their idle talk to send him a message. _Yes, I love your rasping voice. And I find you attractive, she thought, holding his gaze. I didn't realize it, at first, but I shiver with anticipation when you growl._

Sansa wasn't sure he had understood she was talking about him while mentioning Sparafucile, who was after all a hated character, the one who involuntarily killed the heroin, but she felt his eyes on her as she obediently followed Peitho and Baelish upstairs.

* * *

A booming round of applause filled the auditorium as the singers took a bow, yet no one clapped their hands in the dark box where Sansa, Peitho and Baelish were sitting – at the end of the intermission, Sansa's companions had wondered why the electric light didn't work in their box while the others were illuminated but the girl had ignored their question. As everyone else in the auditorium noisily congratulated the singers and the musicians, Sansa and Baelish exchanged puzzled glances while the blond woman between them kept weeping.

"Compose yourself, please," Baelish ordered, slightly turning to face the stage and to applaud."This is just a stupid opera. There's nothing to make a fuss about."

He swiveled his hips a bit more and he completely turned his back on the two women, clapping his hands with feigned enthusiasm. Despite the thunderous applause, Sansa heard Peitho's sobs and moreover, she saw how she curled up on her seat, unable to stop. The girl tentatively brushed the woman's shoulder, feeling terribly awkward. All of a sudden, Peitho got on her feet and she stormed out of the box before any of her companions could react.

"What was that?" Baelish asked Sansa, losing patience. "Is she mad? We have to be downstairs in less than five minutes, I have to introduce you to some important customers." Leaning over Peitho's now empty seat, he snatched Sansa's wrist, making her jump. "Go find her and bring her back immediately. I want her smiling pretty downstairs."

Dumbfounded, Sansa stood up and took the clutch Peitho had left on her seat before leaving the box. Her feet moved of their own accord along the corridors and they led her to the ladies' restrooms: if Sansa was crying her eyes out, that was where she would go. She pushed the door open and froze; in the room covered with white tiles from the floor to the ceiling, Peitho was facing one of the large mirrors, holding herself to the edge of the washstand and she watched her sobbing reflection.

"Get out!" she shouted. "Get out. I want to be alone."

She added something in Russian – swearwords, most likely – and leaned forward again, bracing herself against the washstand. Sansa hesitated, but in the end, she did the only thing she thought sensible: she walked to the blond woman and wrapped her arms around her waist to take her away from the mirror that somehow fascinated her. Peitho resisted at first, but she was past the point of struggling against a younger and more determined woman.

Slowly, she let herself go as Sansa made her spin on her heels and hugged her. The girl let Peitho cry on her shoulder, trying to soothe the violent sobs that shook her ribcage and resonated in the restrooms.

All through the third act, Sansa had felt a lump in her throat, because she knew Violetta's fate and she expected her to die in the end. While the average spectator waited for the famous arias and was touched by Violetta's suffering – yet some superiority complex allowed that spectator to think she was only a courtesan and he secretly thought she had had what she deserved – Peitho had watched the woman's ordeal as if she was her sister, her alter ego. _How could I miss that?_ As Peitho kept weeping, Sansa remembered how she had flinched at the beginning of one of the most heart-wrenching arias of the third act.

_Addio, del passato bei sogni ridenti,_

_Le rose del volto gia sono pallenti ;_

_L'amore d'Alfredo perfino mi manca,_

_Conforto, sostegno dell'anima stanca._

 

_Farewell, happy dreams of by-gone days;_

_The roses in my cheeks already are faded._

_Even Alfredo's love is lacking._

_To comfort and uphold my weary spirit._

Her mother had sung this song, back in Saint-Paul, but Catelyn couldn't suspect it foreboded and vividly explained what awaited women like Peitho. It wasn't one of these shallow riddles one could find in many libretti; it was a warning, plain and sincere and Peitho received it as if a composer dead decades ago across the ocean gave her personal advice. She would age – she already had – and she could lose everything she had fought for. Moved to tears, Sansa tightened her grip on Peitho's waist, unable to stop her from crying.

The world she now lived in worked this way: people hid their emotions and once she would feel better, Peitho would inevitably retrieve her compact from her clutch, to conceal all traces of her emotional outburst – and not to let anyone guess how old she really was.


	15. Heart-Shaped Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgetting about her mouth for a moment, he kissed her jaw-line, her temple, then she felt his cracked lips trailing down her neck, lingering on a spot below her ear; when he reached her collarbone, Sansa shivered with anticipation. He sat up straight and his ragged breathing seemed to be the most arousing sound she had ever heard. As he caught his breath, he let his eyes roam over her and Sansa's gaze instinctively followed his.  
> She had donned one of her finest nightgowns, made of ivory satin and sleeveless. Close-fitting, it had a V neckline and several satin covered buttons below. Mouth gaping, Sandor looked at her breasts; in the end, he locked eyes with her, swallowing hard as he waited for an answer. She nodded once more, though she mentally shuddered at the thought of what he was about to do.  
> When he touched her neckline, she saw hunger in his dark gray eyes. He took his time, freeing one satin covered button from its buttonhole at a time.  
> "Tell me to stop," he urged her, his chest heaving.  
> She didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for language, adult themes and mentions of bisexuality.  
> The title doesn't explicitly refer to the red color, but how can I explain it? This chapter's title is 'Heart-Shaped Box' since day one. This heart-shaped box is red, though. Some readers who were teenagers during the 1990's may know what song I had in mind when I first imagined this...

The sun was already high in the sky when she left her room to knock at Peitho's door: as usual, Sansa had to help the madam dress and prepare herself. That morning, though, a lazy voice told her to come in while she waited on the threshold and Sansa feared – for a heartbeat – that she might disturb the woman but her hand was already on the knob and she pushed the door open.

No one had pulled the curtains aside, so that the bedroom was still in the dark and Sansa instinctively stayed next to the door. Once her eyes adjusted themselves to the dim light, she recognized Peitho's slender form sitting on the edge of the bed; with a sigh, the woman switched on the bedside lamp then rubbed her sleepy eyes. Peitho only wore step-ins and Sansa averted her eyes as she always did when the madam outraged her sense of modesty.

"Do you want me to come back later?" Sansa asked, staring at her shoes and ready to leave.

"No, no, darling Sansa. It's alright. If you're already here, it must be late... Give me five minutes and I'll be ready. Wait for me here."

Getting on her feet, she hurried to the bathroom door without even grabbing her kimono. Sansa leaned back against the door with a sigh. _How can she walk around in panties? And what's the purpose in sleeping half-naked when her closet is packed with pretty nightgowns? I don't get it. Really, I can't understand-_

Something moved under the blankets of the large bed. _Oh no. Not Baelish..._ The blankets moved again and dark tousled hair appeared, except it was longer than Baelish's. A tinkling laugh resonated in the bedroom and Sansa didn't know if she should be relieved or scandalized. Stretching her limbs, Edna's smiling face emerged from the covers and she tried to comb her bobbed hair.

"Good morning, sunshine," she playfully told Sansa.

"Good morning, Edna."

She stretched her limbs again, before pushing the blankets aside and sitting up. If Sansa had rolled her eyes when seeing Peitho walking to the bathroom half-naked, she now felt her face grow hot: Edna didn't even take the trouble to put on panties.

"So tell me," she asked Sansa, "what does it look like?"

She mumbled an incoherent answer, making Edna laugh.

"Can you at least put some clothes on, please?" Sansa countered, folding her arms.

Edna nodded reluctantly and to Sansa's great embarrassment, she crawled to the other side of the bed to find the kimono Peitho had left behind her. Once she raised to her full height, she put the precious garment on, tied the belt and spun on her heels mockingly.

"Is it enough for you, Miss?" she said, swaggering across the room.

"Don't call me that," Sansa replied.

"Alright, you don't like being called 'Miss' and you're pissed off because you didn't know we were having sex."

"I'm not angry," Sansa protested. "I don't care about what you do. It was just... unexpected."

"Are you disgusted?" Edna inquired, planting herself in front of the girl. Oddly enough, her curiosity seemed genuine and devoid of sarcasm.

Sansa hesitated. "I don't think I am. I'm surprised, that's all. And I thought Peitho only... I mean I thought there was only Baelish-"

"If Peitho only slept with Baelish, I would really feel for her. Poor baby! You know, Sansa, men don't really understand what we want and what we need. They want to enjoy themselves in bed and most of them don't care about us. It's much easier to tell a woman what you want her to do to you."

Dumbstruck, Sansa gazed at the dark-haired woman who wore Peitho's silken kimono and casually smiled at her.

"But how did it happen?" she asked Edna. "How did you and Peitho-"

"How did we end up together? Oh, I don't carry a torch for her, if that's what you think. It was last year and she was feeling blue. We talked a lot and suddenly she asked me."

Sansa shook her head, fighting against a persistent feeling of awkwardness. "I mean how did you figured out you preferred... women?"

Edna puckered up, then turned around and walked to the window to pull aside the curtains. "I didn't figure it out because I wouldn't say I prefer women," she explained, as light flooded the room. "I like both. It's just that, one day I had sex with another girl and I really, really enjoyed myself. Frankly, you should try." She crossed the room and cupped Sansa's chin. "Women are more tender than men. A man can hurt you when you sleep with him, but according to my experience, a woman never does."

"Thank you, but I don't feel like trying," Sansa retorted.

"Oh, what's eating you, darling?" she cooed.

Many things worried Sansa and kept her awake at night. Some were unspeakable, like the police's investigation and her concern for Sandor, but maybe she could take advantage of this weird conversation to ask Edna's advice.

"You said men hurt us..." she trailed off.

Edna nodded. "It happens. I'm not only talking about young, inexperienced girls like you. No offense, Sansa. Customers can hurt you if they have some special... wishes. Sometimes you can guess it when you observe their attitude before going upstairs."

Sansa remained silent for a while, wondering if she could ask the question that burned her lips. _I've got nothing to lose._

"What... what would you think of a man who's obsessed with your back?" she shyly inquired. "What does it mean, according to your... experience?" She waited with bated breath, as Edna absent-mindedly combed her bangs.

"Well dear, that's difficult to say and I don't want to throw you into a panic... I'd say it's typical of possessive men. Doesn't mean he'll hurt you, but I'm not sure he'll let you be on top."

Her expression suddenly changed and she asked playfully: "Tell me, who is it?"

As she couldn't possibly mention Sandor without drawing unwanted attention on him, she chose the only name she could think of at that moment. "Tyrion Lannister," she answered, blushing deeply.

"Oh my God. Dwarfs are perverts. My mother always told me so. I- I don't mean 'pervert' in a bad sense, I mean 'pervert'..."

"Alright, I got it," Sansa replied, though she wasn't sure she understood.

She only wanted to end their conversation and shook her head, hoping Edna wouldn't insist.

* * *

_I'm yours_ , the crimson heart-shaped box proclaimed. In Sandor's hands, the box looked tiny and fragile, like some trinket he could crush easily if he decided to. Its flaws seemed more obvious, as well: Sansa had made it herself with papier-mâché since she couldn't leave Baelish's house. She had stolen newsprint to prepare it and Rose had provided her with glue and red paint. At some point, Sansa had been so anxious about the gift she wanted to offer Sandor – a mere embroidered handkerchief – she had decided to impress him with the wrapping. Sandor's birthday was a special day and their kiss proved they had reached an important step, that was for sure, so the box containing the humble present she was ready to give him would be an heart-shaped one.

 _I'm yours_ , the heart-shaped box announced. And suddenly, when observing the tall man's blank stare, Sansa wasn't sure at all. It's too much, too soon, she told herself. _I'm such a fool. He waited for a signal to kiss me, he always questions my feelings for him and now I give him this ridiculous box. He will either laugh or panic. Maybe he'll shout at me._ It was Sandor's birthday, he was finally here and she felt like she had already spoiled the special night with her childish desire to impress him. When the man sitting on the edge of her bed looked up at her, she swallowed hard.

"You don't like it," she stated.

Her voice didn't break and she thanked God for that, for at least giving her the strength to deliver a truth. The painful expression she saw on his face struck her as she stood in front of him and she shifted from foot to foot.

"You shouldn't have done that, Little Bird. Words have a meaning. Symbols too."

 _Is he questioning my feelings? Does he thinks I'm mocking his, with this box?_ She couldn't help frowning and she gaped, trying to gather her thoughts.

"I'm well aware of a heart's meaning, Sandor. It's like the song I chose the other day. I didn't choose at random. I mean it, I- I'm in love with you."

He shook his head in disbelief and it hurt her so much she had to hug herself. When she was a child, she thought the day she would tell a man she loved him, he would immediately kneel down to confess he loved her even more than she did. Or perhaps she believed she would never have to confess her feelings first.

Sandor wasn't the man she idealized when she was a little girl; he was far from being perfect and she doubted her parents would have accepted him as their son-in-law. Their relationship was a complicated one and she sensed she would have to wait for a long time, maybe for years to hear him declare his love for her. He could as well never tell her the words she waited for. He would give her proofs of his affection – even inappropriate tokens of love like the dead bodies he had left in his wake – but he would most likely never say these words. _Why does it hurt so much?_

Hot tears pricked her eyes and she wished he wouldn't notice her emotion, to add embarrassment to an already confusing situation. Slightly turning around and staring at a spot behind her, she tried to hide her misty eyes until a big hand took hers and forced her to face him. She resisted and stubbornly turned her back on Sandor, while her fingers were still trapped in his large calloused hand.

"How can you not hate me after what I let Joffrey do to you?" he rasped.

Sansa began to shiver uncontrollably, chewing her lip not to cry and she gasped when he got on his feet. One more step and he was flush to her, rubbing her upper arms and whispering in her hair: "I said I would protect you, and I should have smashed the little prick's pretty face."

Seeking comfort now that tears rolled down her cheeks, she leaned her back against his chest and let his tall figure engulf hers. If she was sure he would never tell her that he loved her, she would at least hold onto the idea that he gave her his strength and truly wished to defend her against whatever enemies she had.

"I never meant to hurt you," he said in an undertone, cradling her.

 _But you did._ She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, well-aware her mascara had run on her cheeks: she was past the point of caring.

"I need you."

She froze. That was as close as she would get to a declaration of love, and it described his feelings for her more genuinely than any other expression. He needed her indeed, as he needed whiskey to forget his past. He needed her presence, her smell, the touch of her skin and even their arguments or he wouldn't come back to this place he hated so much. He needed her like he needed air and that was why he now wanted to fly away with Sansa, at the risk of losing everything.

Her chin trembling, she managed to tell him: "Say it again. Please."

If these words were all she would get from it, she wanted to hear them once more and to relish the emotion they caused.

"I need you," he rasped.

She closed her eyes while listening to his husky voice and she let him tighten his grip on her. Confessing he needed someone was new for him, she sensed it and she therefore appreciated the effort it required. He was unsure, if the way his words inflected at the end of the sentence was any indication. Sansa wondered if she could turn around to bury her face in his chest or if he would refuse her this – on the balcony, some ten days earlier, he had prevented her from escaping his arms and kept her like this, her back leaning against his chest. She tentatively wriggled, and to her great surprise, he let her do as she pleased, pulling her close when she snuggled up against him. He mumbled something but his words were lost to the piano solo behind them; Sansa didn't care and held on tight to his waistcoat. _Come on, you can't stay forever like that. The song is ending and you're behaving like a little girl._

She slowly pulled away and looked up at him, craning her neck. His scars almost disappeared under the curtain of thin black hair, allowing her to focus on his gray eyes.

"You find that box ridiculous, right?" she said, as he wiped her tears with the pad of his thumb.

He sighed. "There's only one thing I find ridiculous, Little Bird: I failed you and you don't hate me."

_'You don't hate me' : that's an understatement._

"You didn't fail me the other day: you did what you had to do to protect our plan. You only hurt me every time you question my feelings for you."

Her words were even, yet they were laced with bitterness. As she escaped his arms to go to the phonograph and to pick another record, she read anxiety in his eyes: if his disbelief stung her so often, he feared to lose her whenever she walked away from him. _Sometimes, it's like his doubts rubbed off on me._ She chose _'You'd be surprised'_ , as she always did when she needed encouragement, according to him, and she crossed the room, then pointed at the heart-shaped box he had left on the bedspread.

The music somewhat helped her relax and she said : "You didn't open it. It's not much, but-"

Sandor took her in his arms and silenced her with a kiss. "Being here with you is the best fucking gift I ever had, girl," he whispered, the tip of his nose brushing her cheek.

"Won't you open it?"

"Of course I will."

He reluctantly let go of her to sit down and he patted the edge of the bed, so that she settled herself next to him. Then, with unhurried movements, he took the crimson heart-shaped box, put it on his knee and removed the lid. Inside, there was the handkerchief he had used to wipe her tears after Meryn Trant's assault, the one he had forgotten the morning after; Sansa had kept it in the bedside table ever since. She had washed it and embroidered Sandor's monogram on one of its corners.

"I didn't know your middle name," she explained, ashamed by her humble present, "so I only embroidered an "S" and a "C". I hope you like it. I hope you're not disappointed, but as I can't leave this house-"

"No need to justify yourself, Little Bird. It's beautiful. Thank you."

He ducked his head to kiss her cheek and she found his gesture both boyish and adorable. He kept feeling the handkerchief between his thumb and his forefinger, brushing the smooth surface of the satin stitching which gray thread contrasted on the white fabric. Sansa had taken her time to get a perfect result and it certainly looked elegant. Her governess, Mrs Mordane, would have been proud, assuming no one had told her what the recipient did for a living.

"I chose a gray thread because it reminded me of the color of your eyes, though it constantly changes," she added, chiding herself afterward for sounding so pathetically romantic.

Her remark forced a smile out of him and she almost sighed with relief when he shoved the handkerchief in his pocket. _If he accepts my present it means I've won._

"Never had any embroidered handkerchief," he commented. "Now I could strut about with your gift, if I didn't fear to arouse suspicion. But I'll keep it with me."

He was about to wrap his arm around her waist when she stood up abruptly.

"There's more," she announced. "You laughed at me the other day, talking about birthday cakes and candles... I made a cake for you."

Before he could protest, she went to the small table and removed the silvery plate cover which hid the chocolate cake she had made under Rose's watchful guidance. Sansa placed a candle on top of it and looked for the box of matches. The music stopped and she picked another record. Once the candle was lit, she took the plate and carried it towards the spot where he was sitting.

"Happy birthday," she whispered in his ear, leaning forward to put the plate in his hands.

He claimed her mouth and as he grabbed her waist to prevent her from walking away, Sansa felt like this kiss was foreshadowing what was next that night. _He's going to stay. And he'll kiss me again. Maybe he'll ask for more than kisses but I won't deny his request. All this is what I always wanted. It's just that I didn't know I wanted it to happen._ He pulled away slowly, brushed her cheek then contemplated the cake, its deep brown crust gleamed under the candle flickering light.

"I thought you preferred lemon cakes," he commented, smelling chocolate.

"It's _your_ birthday, so I tried to figure out what kind of cake you would like. Chocolate seemed a good option."

He smiled a twitched half-smile, giving her an inquiring look.

"Make a wish and blow out the candle," she suggested, sitting down next to him and smoothing the skirt of her dress.

As he leaned forward, she tugged a strand of dark hair behind his ear and she watched him put out the flame; from side-on, when she could only see his good cheek, he looked hard-faced, intriguing yet handsome and she remembered how much she had missed his presence and his kisses during the last days. Sitting up straight, he glanced at her, his unsettling gaze causing goosebumps on her bare upper arms.

"This wish you made..." she said shyly, "what was it?"

"Wishes are supposed to remain secret, Little Bird. Besides, I don't want to make you blush more than you do just now."

As she began to wonder about the special wish that raised a smile from him, she felt her face grow hot.

"Go ahead," she told him, embarrassed, "eat it."

"Have you got a knife?"

Sansa mentally face palmed: she had smuggled a box of matches, china plates and spoons but she had completely forgotten to ask Rose for a knife. She sheepishly looked at Sandor.

"Don't worry, girl."

He retrieved a switchblade from his pocket and Sansa nervously laughed at the sight of the horn handle. She just didn't want to know in what kind of circumstances he had used this knife previously.

"Hope you don't mind," he rasped, opening the switchblade and letting it hover over the cake.

He cut two rather large slices of cake and held the plate out to her; Sansa instantly rose and fetched the dessert plates and spoons she had left on the table. "Your plate," he asked, carefully looking at the slice of cake in equilibrium on the narrow blade of his knife. Using a switchblade as a pie server seemed so incongruous she repressed a tiny laugh.

"Give me the small one, please," she told him, still in high spirits.

"They're equal. Don't you dare say I don't know how to slice a cake, girl," he added, feigning anger.

He carelessly put the large plate aside and they began to eat wordlessly – at least Sansa did. Sandor remained silent but he kept looking at her. Suddenly nervous, she stopped, a spoonful of cake on its way to her mouth. What his eyes conveyed was disturbing: as they went darker and as he stared at her lips, she understood he wanted her and he tried to resist the urge to kiss and to fondle her on the spot. In the end, his eyes darted away from her and he began to eat the slice of cake with his fingers.

"You can have another one," she suggested, nudging him once the ivory surface of his plate was only covered with dark brown crumbs. "I know you're hungry. And it's your birthday after all."

He shook his head. "I'm fine."

Getting on his feet, he took the empty plates, the spoons, the plate still containing half of the cake and the now useless candle before crossing the room and putting them on the small table. Then he moved the heavy armchair until it was next to the phonograph. She knew what it meant: they would spend the night in each other's arms until he had to go. _Assuming he doesn't want to stay._

Vaguely nervous, she couldn't help using small talk to break the silence. "Did you like the cake? It was moist, but the aroma of chocolate was perhaps too strong."

"It was delicious." He helped her on her feet and pulled her close.

"I made it myself. I mean... Rose was there and she told me what to do but I-"

Taking her hands in his, he raised them to his lips and started to kiss her fingers and her palms. Then, with unhurried movements, despite the crackling sounds coming from the phonograph, he led her to the armchair, placed a new record on the turntable and finally settled in the extravagant seat. Sansa gingerly sat on his knees before feeling his grip on her waist: once she was across his lap, the back of her knees supported by the armrests, he started to brush her ribcage and began to kiss her.

"You taste of chocolate," she commented, amused.

"You too, Little Bird."

"Do you want to drink? Maybe you're thirsty. Do you want me to fetch some water?"

He shook his head and wrapped his arm around her waist. "You stay here. You're my dessert."

Embarrassed, she let her eyes fall on her lap.

"Don't mistake my words," she heard him growl. "I'm not going to force myself upon you. Kissing is fine." He stopped talking for a second, swallowed hard, then added: "Can I stay here tonight?"

"You know you can always spend the night here," she answered, brushing his burnt cheek.

 _But he needs to hear it from me._ She wished her gaze could convey all her affection, and the trust she put in him.

"I want to spend this night in your arms," she confessed, whispering in his ear. "This one and the nights to come."

The kisses they exchanged for the next thirty minutes were only interrupted by the crackling sounds of the phonograph and Sansa noticed she was quicker than she used to whenever she had to pick another record. The frustration she felt when the song ended, warning her that she had to place a new 78 rpm on the turntable before someone discovered what was going on in her bedroom, was as strong as the desire to press her lips on his again. She therefore hurried to pick a new sleeve in the box, then to retrieve the record from it and to put it on the turntable before swiveling her hips and facing the man she had fallen in love with, against all odds.

Their kisses were more passionate in the beginning, then more tender when Sandor finally seemed to realize she wasn't going to escape his arms. She ran her fingertips on his face, exploring both sides with the same curiosity, feeling the smooth surface of his skin, tracing the cracks and burns with concern, gently kissing his jaw despite his stubble. Holding her tight, he trailed down her cheek, put kisses on her jaw and her neck but stopped at the collarbone. There would be more kisses, later, when he would come back to her, emerging from the bathroom window, but for now, he didn't want to risk everything, nor to let the tiresome phonograph interrupt them because one of them needed to choose a new record. 

* * *

The sounds she could hear from the adjoining rooms or those coming from the upper levels, reverberated by the old wooden floors, seemed far away as soon as Sandor's hulking figure appeared in the window frame. He contorted himself to come in and he left the usual trail of muddy snow on the tiled floor of the bathroom; Rose could guess exactly when he secretly visited her, as she cleaned Sansa's room every morning, and she still frowned whenever the girl mentioned the unlikely savior she had found for herself. Sometimes, she wondered if the old cook would finally trust him, if she would agree to treat him as an ally instead of rolling her faded blue eyes every time his name crossed Sansa's lips.

For now, he was standing in front of her, silent and somewhat ill-at-ease, if the nervous clenching and unclenching of his fists was any indication.

"Are you alright?" he asked her in an undertone, tentatively brushing her cheek.

She nodded yet she shivered under the thin layers of her nightgown and her dressing-gown; not that she was cold, but she sensed something was about to happen and she couldn't help wondering how she was supposed to behave. Sandor took off his overcoat and tossed it to the floor, next to the window; thus, if someone paid Sansa an unexpected visit, he could hide himself in the bathroom, grab his coat and run away.

She stared at the coat he had carelessly thrown to the floor, moved past him and picked it up. Looking up at him, she dusted the coat and placed it on the nearest hook; on different circumstances, he would have laughed and made fun of her good manners, but he remained silent as he observed her and Sansa deduced that he was indeed nervous.

Her mouth went dry when they left the bathroom. As she usually did when Sandor spent the night in Baelish's house, she had turned off all the lights, except the bedside lamp; in the dim light, the four-poster bed seemed even larger and doubts suddenly crept over her. _Maybe I made a mistake, maybe he misunderstood me during our last conversation. There's a part of me that wants to be his, as soon as possible, even tonight, and there's another part that is not ready._

Uncomfortable, she wrung her hands when they silently stopped at the foot of the bed. Sansa turned around and she took in his slumped shoulders and his labored breathing; his hot gaze met her anxious eyes and he led her to her side of the bed. As they stood there, face to face, wordless and unsure, Sansa swallowed hard, wishing someone had told her what to do in such a case. _Sometimes I don't know what I want._

Tears welled up in her eyes when he broke the silence: "I'm not- I'm not going to have sex with you. We have plenty of time. Assuming you want to sleep with me. We never discussed that."

"I'm yours," she heard herself whisper and she realized it was true.

He lifted his hand to silence her, as if her confession was already too much, as if he couldn't stomach it.

"And you certainly don't want to lose your maidenhood in a brothel. Nobody wants to."

"I-" she said tentatively, shaking her head because ideas seemed to churn around up there. "I want to be with you. It's just that..."

"You're not ready yet."

It was a statement, rather than a question. She slightly nodded. Sansa felt miserable, yet she steeled herself and wiped the tears that had run on cheeks. _He's in front of me and in a few hours he will be gone. And I don't know when he'll come back. I'm done complaining. There's no time to waste._

On an impulse, she kissed him. As she stood on tiptoe, both hands cupping his chin, she realized she kissed him like someone takes a gulp of wine: to gather her courage and to find the strength to go on. She knew Sandor couldn't remain impassive – his eyes, darker than usual, and the way he looked at her proved his arousal – so she wasn't surprised when he responded to her kiss with the eagerness he had already shown previously. When he pulled away, Sansa convinced herself that, for once, she wasn't more hesitating than he was, as if the kiss had leveled their turmoil, plunging both of them in the same agitation.

As they caught their breath, she rested her head against his heart and they stayed like that for a while, until Sandor decided it was time to block the door with a chair and he tossed one of Sansa's shawls on the console table to prevent anyone to look at them through the tiny hole in the wall. When he came back, her heart skipped a beat. He planted himself in front of her, brushed her cheek, ran his fingers through her short hair and trailed down her neck.

Once his hand reached the smooth fabric covering her shoulder, he locked eyes with her and he waited for her wordless consent to untie the knot of her dressing-gown. As the satin dressing-gown fell on the rug and despite the persistent feeling of being half-naked in her nightgown, she held his gaze. _That was what I wanted. My turn, now._

She touched his upper arms, her fingers hovering over the shoulder holster he wore; she was unable to remove it without his help and he diligently did it for her, tossing the shoulder holster and the gun that was inside, on the other side of the bed. He let her do as she pleased when she buttoned down his waistcoat, then his shirt and removed them.

 _God, he's beautiful._ Unbidden and certainly more sincere than the expressions she had cherished some weeks ago like _'He's impressive'_ , _'He's strong'_ or the factual _'He's got scars all over his torso'_ , these words came as soon as she saw his chest. She fought the urge to throw herself in his arms and instead, she lifted a shaky hand, wondering what he would think of her if she caressed his chest like she wanted to.

Her fingers fell on his belt and she began to struggle with the buckle. Firm hands stopped her at once.

"You don't want to do that," he growled. "Not tonight. Someday, maybe."

His reaction reminded her of Tyrion's words about Sandor, during his last visit to Baelish's house. _'The two things he took for granted had dramatically changed: you were not out of his reach anymore and you lived in a place where you would inevitably lose that innocence he found so compelling. Some of us don't cope with changes.'_

_I'm not ready, but oddly enough, he's not ready either. He still sees me as the innocent girl he met two years ago. Almost three years ago now._

No matter what he thought at that moment, he was pushing the bedspread, the blankets and the sheets like he had done before. She sat down on the edge of the bed, her heart pounding wildly in her chest, and she let him remove her slippers with gentle movements that seemed unlike him. Squatting in front of her, his face partly hidden by his long hair, he stared at her, waiting for a sign.

After a few heartbeats, Sansa leaned forward and kissed him. Her lips merely brushed his and she did nothing to deepen their kiss; it was a token of encouragement, a silent proof of acquiescence more than a kiss, yet it was what he expected and her gesture spurred him on.

"Lie down," he said and his husky tone sent shivers down her spine.

Sansa complied wordlessly, the rustle of her satin nightgown against the white sheets being the only sound in the bedroom. Once she was lying flat on her back, almost in the middle of the mattress, he climbed on the bed and he straddled her.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he promised and she realized her features had involuntarily tensed as he towered above her.

"I know."

"If I do something you don't like, just say it."

She nodded gravely, then she watched him leaning over her and stopping inches from her face: as his strands of hair tickled her, she brushed them aside and pulled him close. This time, their kiss was passionate and it showed all the tension and possessiveness they had harbored for each other. _Now he can't question what I tried to tell him with the heart-shaped box,_ she mused, out of breath.

Forgetting about her mouth for a moment, he kissed her jaw-line, her temple, then she felt his cracked lips trailing down her neck, lingering on a spot below her ear; when he reached her collarbone, Sansa shivered with anticipation. He sat up straight and his ragged breathing seemed to be the most arousing sound she had ever heard. As he caught his breath, he let his eyes roam over her and Sansa's gaze instinctively followed his.

She had donned one of her finest nightgowns, made of ivory satin and sleeveless. Close-fitting, it had a V neckline and several satin covered buttons below. Mouth gaping, Sandor looked at her breasts; in the end, he locked eyes with her, swallowing hard as he waited for an answer. She nodded once more, though she mentally shuddered at the thought of what he was about to do.

When he touched her neckline, she saw hunger in his dark gray eyes. He took his time, freeing one satin covered button from its buttonhole at a time.

"Tell me to stop," he urged her, his chest heaving.

She didn't.

Her cheeks aflame, she watched him moving aside the smooth fabric until he could see the fullness of her breasts. A deep, hoarse sound escaped his throat as he contemplated her. Sansa felt like she was losing control on her own body: the unusual sensation down her belly came back and she struggled not to pull him close. Chewing her bottom lip, she closed her eyes as he freed her shoulders from the nightgown then she helped him by propping herself up on her elbows, still avoiding his gaze.

Once she was naked from the waist up, she laid down again on the mattress. However, feeling exposed, she uncontrollably began to wriggle under his gaze.

"Are you cold?" he asked, noticing goosebumps on her skin. There was something either mocking or cruel in his tone; she shook her head. "Scared?"

"Not anymore," she heard herself whisper.

It was true; she suddenly felt bolder and when he claimed her mouth, she responded to his kiss at once. Surprised by her reaction, he growled his approval and his lips soon deserted hers to brush her neck and her collarbone. All of a sudden he stopped and locked eyes with her. Sansa answered to his silent question by a nod and she sucked in a deep breath.

At first, sitting up, he only brushed the side of her breasts, observing the slightest move on her face. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he ran the pad of his thumb on her hard nipples and Sansa felt like she was going to faint. As he kneaded her breasts, seemingly relishing the contact of her skin under his calloused palms, he noticed how she looked tense, for he bent over her again and murmured: "Let yourself go."

She let out a deep breath she didn't know she had been holding. _'You were the epitome of innocence'_ : she had clung to that idea, convinced Sandor wouldn't like it, if his pure Little Bird acted like a shameless woman. _Even Tyrion Lannister's wisdom has its limits,_ she thought. _Or the way Sandor sees me already changed._

The next time he leaned over her, he licked her nipple and she automatically arched her back. He went on, running his tongue on the sensitive area and eliciting tiny moans from her. With her head resting on the mattress and his hair still hiding his face, she could only see the glisten of his eye; he never stopped staring at her, though, paying close attention to the effect of his ministrations he could read on her features.

She moaned louder when he sucked her breast; spurred on, he started to knead the other one. She was losing control for good, on the evidence of her contented sigh and of the wetness that had pooled between her legs. When he stopped nibbling at one breast to lick the other, he gave her a challenging look, but as she arched her back a bit more, desperate for his touch, he went on.

"Don't stop," she begged.

Afterward, she would most likely chide herself for being so wanton, and she would blame the loathsome influence of the women she lived with, but she let herself go for a brief moment, and as soon as he stopped, panting over her naked bust, pleasure gave way to frustration.

He left the bed so quickly he almost startled her, he hurried to the bathroom and the clicking of the bolt put an end to one of the most disconcerting moments she had experienced. She looked at her bare chest, suddenly ashamed to notice how swollen were her breasts and she hastily buttoned up her nightgown. _As if it never happened._

Waiting for him as he was locked inside the bathroom doing what he had to do distressed her; she therefore spent the next five minutes biting her lip, listening to every noise, every crackling sound in the large, four-story house.

When he came back to her, he seemed different, more serene and more tender, even though he told her mockingly: "You look tiny in this huge bed." He stopped and contemplated her lying form. "Still want me sleeping next to you, after what I did?"

Sansa didn't know if he was referring to his caresses or to the unceremonious way he had left her a few minutes earlier, but she patted the mattress next to her and he laid down without further comment. He took her in his arms, let her trace the scars on his torso and he even cradled her.

"Did I hurt you?" His voice exuded concern, suddenly.

Sansa shook her head and she breathed in his scent.

"You should sleep now," he told her in an undertone. "It's late."

She was his little bird again, the girl he was supposed to watch over, the one he enjoyed to mock for her childishness and her good manners. The constant changes in his behavior were something she could think forever about.

"Thank you," she muttered after a while.

"There's nothing to thank me for, girl. Besides, I enjoyed myself as much as you."

The depth of his voice once more thrilled her, making her nestle against him. Questions came tumbling out in her mind after she heard his remark, but she felt she could utter them, so she changed the subject.

"Will you- Will you keep your promise?" she shyly asked.

"What promise?"

"I asked you not to... kill anyone else," she reminded him.

"I didn't say I agreed."

She glanced at him, and in the parsimonious light the bedside lamp provided, his features looked as stern as ever. "You promised you would think of the consequences before attacking someone else."

"Perhaps. I never was good at thinking though. And if someone hurts you, I won't wait for anyone's green light before doing what's right."

"Nobody hurt me, Sandor."

He snorted. "Are you sure? Sometimes you seem eager to protect the ones who did you wrong."

"I told you killing someone else was the best thing to do if you want to end up in jail."

"Stubborn little girl," he rasped. "I didn't kill anyone. Since Marillion, that is. I didn't even stalk anyone."

 _Because you already stalked people?_ Sansa couldn't help sighing in exasperation. "You should spend more time here with me instead of stalking people," she told him, putting a light kiss in the crook of his neck. "You could come more often."

"What does it mean? You'll let me play doctor with you if I promise not to kill again?" Cupping her chin, he forced her to look at him. Amusement and disbelief sparkled in his gray eyes.

"Playing doctor? Isn't that what we just did?" she asked.

"Can't believe you said what you said," he chuckled, pulling the blankets to her chin. "Won't you get tired of me?"

"I doubt that very much."

They kissed, with more tenderness than before, perhaps because they were both exhausted. Perhaps because he was finally ready to trust her.

"Can I turn off the light or is there something else you want to chirp about, Little Bird?"

Sansa chewed her lip. There was something else she wanted to discuss, something she should have told him before, yet she didn't find the strength. Berdokhovski's offer wasn't a subject she could conveniently ignore; sweeping dust under the carpet wouldn't solve the problem. She felt guilty for avoiding the question with Sandor and she feared his reaction when he would finally discover it – for he was the Hound, wasn't he?

On the other hand, she knew all her efforts to gain his confidence would be shattered. Sansa wondered for a few heartbeats, resting her cheek against his hairy chest. _It's his birthday, after all: I did my best to prepare this night, I let him do things nobody had done to me before and I can't ruin everything. I'm not strong enough to argue with him tonight._

"You can turn off the light," she said tenderly, kissing his neck. "Happy Birthday, again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a million to Underthenorthernlights who worked on this chapter despite some computer issues!
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated, especially about this chapter - it made me rather nervous... Feel free to share your thoughts about it!


	16. Red Blooded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was about to leave Tyrion – the band was already tuning their instruments after all – when she gave a last glance to Sandor. Jaded, he was observing her; he took in her hesitation, her stillness that bordered on paralysis because she didn't want to push her luck by heading toward him, and he slowly lifted his half-empty glass in a mocking gesture. He stayed like this for a second, the very image of disillusionment. Her chest constricting, she held his gaze but she didn't move for his bitter, weary look petrified her. The notion she might have already spoiled everything between them was unbearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for language and sexual themes.

Though it was still pitch-dark, Sansa knew something was different when she awoke. That weight on her chest, for example, and the deep breaths she could hear were unfamiliar. Even the way she lay in bed seemed different. _I must have ended up on his side._ She cautiously touched the sleeping form on top of her and found Sandor's thin hair. Grinning, even if he couldn't see her, she extended her arm to find the bedside lamp she immediately turned on, before stifling a gasp: Sandor had fallen asleep in a most childish way, his head pillowed by her chest, and when she slightly moved her leg, she found his thigh. _Disturbing, really._

The blankets looked like a mess and she repressed a chuckle at the sight of Sandor's foot emerging from the sheets, as if hanging in the air, because in the awkward position he was sleeping, even the huge four-poster bed wasn't long enough for his uncommon height. _He looks like a little boy,_ she mused, gazing at his features half-covered by dark hair. As he slept peacefully, head resting on her chest, she could only see the right side of his face, the one that wasn't burnt. Sound asleep, his balled fist on the mattress, next to Sansa's ribcage, no one could have imagined what kind of sad memories and past demons haunted him. _What did you dream about? What made you snuggle up to me during the night?_

She swiveled her head and glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table: it was four o'clock and she knew he soon would have to go. A frustrated sigh escaped her lips. _I can't wake him, can I?_ Despite the risks, if someone found out he had spent the night with her, she couldn't find the strength to wake him up: the pressure on her chest and his thigh resting between her legs were new sensations she wanted to enjoy as long as she could.

_I guess all good things come to an end,_ she mentally complained, as he mumbled something and finally stretched his limbs.

"Good morning," she said, brushing aside the unruly locks that still prevented her from seeing his features.

"'Morning. How long have you been doing this?"

"What? Looking at you while you slept? Just a few minutes. It's four o'clock, you still have time."

He rubbed his eyes and she saw the Hound again as he propped himself on his elbows: his scars were visible and as soon as he clenched his jaw, glancing at the alarm clock, all traces of peacefulness vanished from his face. She nonetheless ran her fingers over his upper arms, fascinated by the way his rippling muscles looked in the orange light of the bedside lamp.

"Stay," she whispered.

Unbeknownst to her, the tone she had used was seductive enough to draw his attention; she almost recoiled when he bored into her eyes and his lustful look made her blush. She finally darted her eyes away from him.

"It works," he commented, chuckling darkly. "I can still stare you down."

Sansa rolled her eyes. "You want us to waste our time arguing?"

Slipping her hands under the sheets, she found his middle and she snaked her arms around his waist. She thought she was being tender, but he found her gesture provocative.

"You don't know what you're doing, girl."

"I know I want you to stay. And I know you're doing your best to be rude and to make me lose my temper, so that I give up. I won't. I won't give up."

As her right hand brushed his bare side, he shuddered under her touch. "I must be too heavy for you," he said after a while.

One could find traces of disbelief in his voice. She shook her head vehemently.

"Never liked sendoffs, girl. I should be going."

Frustration made her immune to his usual self-deprecating comments; he probably sensed it for she saw in his gray eyes that he didn't know how to react.

"I want a proper sendoff," she explained a bit stiffly. "Not like the other day, when you left me without a kind word and I cried my eyes out after you were gone."

She sounded acrimonious and childish, but perhaps he needed clear reproaches to understand how she felt.

"Well, teach me then. What is a proper sendoff?" he answered challengingly.

Despite his arched eyebrow and his sarcastic tone, his features had softened and she knew he would give her what she expected. At first, she brushed the scars and cracks on his face, enjoying how his long hair tickled the back of her hand.

"Rest your head right there," she commanded him, showing a spot near her heart. "Like you did when you were asleep."

He complied and when she felt the pressure of his head and upper body on hers, she let out a contented sigh. "I'm too heavy," he mumbled, talking against the neckline of her nightgown.

His hot breath tickled Sansa and confused memories of the past night washed over her.

"You're not." She ran her fingers through his hair, with unhurried movements, relieved to see how he finally relaxed. "Kiss me," she asked him after a while.

He propped himself on his elbows and shifted to put a light kiss on her lips.

"You can do better than that."

He licked his lips, amused by her remark, and kissed her fervently. The pressure of his body, combined to the urgency of their kiss made her dizzy; she opened her mouth for him and cupped his face to make sure he wouldn't break their kiss too soon. The moment she felt his need against her thigh, he stopped, panting.

"I have to go," he said after a silence. In his eyes that constantly moved from her lips to her blue iris, she saw a mix of resoluteness and sorrow. "I wish I could stay with you but I can't."

She reluctantly let go of him and he sat up, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. Elbows rooted to his knees, he cradled his head, before picking up his clothes with a sigh. Suddenly feeling a lump in her throat, she sat up too and wrapped tentative arms around his waist. _I'm going to miss his warmth and his kisses._ The skin of his back was somewhat rough and scarred under her cheeks but for a second she clung to the illusion he could stay forever with her.

"You think it's easy for me?" he rasped bitterly, and her ear glued to his back made his voice sound different. "I leave you here, in Littlefinger's house, not knowing when I'll come back nor what kind of bastard will visit you tonight. Do you think I sleep tight when I don't know who you're dancing for? The world you live in is full of monsters and creeps – I know it, I'm one of them – and the notion I can't protect you drives me mad." He had escaped her arms to turn around and to face her, while she fought back tears. "Especially now," he added.

"What do you mean?" she asked, trying to focus on his words rather than on her own sadness.

"Remember Gregor, my fucking brother? He was in the south, busy with his men because some rednecks who declared themselves the Brotherhood without Banners wanted the sole control of moonshine. Brotherhood, my ass. Gregor will be back in town soon, according to Tywin Lannister."

Sansa was well-aware of the grudge Sandor held against his older brother, still she didn't see what Gregor's return had to do with her.

"If he shows up here with his men, which is likely," he said, pointing at her in a way that startled her, "you're sick, you're bedridden, you make up whatever you want but you stay away from him. If he finds out what you mean to me..."

He didn't finish his sentence and his eyes fell to the floor. _What do I mean to you?_ Sansa was dying to ask him, but instead she tried to soothe his nerves and said: "I'll make up something so that I won't meet him. I promise."

He glanced at her and the anxiety she saw in his gray eyes struck her. Putting the rumpled sheets aside, she got on her feet and helped him dress as he was still sitting on the edge of the bed, his legs open. She rued the undershirt for hiding most of his muscled chest and the white shirt for concealing his strong arms. Then, the waistcoat gave him a more solemn attitude and she finally fetched the shoulder holster. _I guess the Hound has donned his armor,_ she told herself bitterly. She tried to comb his hair with her fingers, to touch him once more before he was gone.

"You look presentable now," she whispered, trying to sound light-hearted.

As she was standing in front of his sitting form, he looked up at her then he pulled her close and buried his face in her stomach. It was so disconcerting Sansa didn't know what to do at first. While his left arm snaked around her waist, he stroked her side and her hip with his free hand, breathing deeply. Overwhelmed by her sensations, she arched her back until he slightly pulled away to crane his neck.

He glanced at her. "Did I hurt you last night?"

She guessed he referred to what had happen once they were in bed and she shook her head vehemently as if she wanted to get rid of the persistent warmth on her cheeks. His face was inches of her cleavage. _He's clueless about what he can tell me or not. What kind of man would ask me that question? Only someone who has no experience about relationships can do that._ Eyes widening, she watched him put a light kiss on her stomach before raising to his full height.

"The next show..." he began, "when is it?"

"Within four days. Three days, now. On Monday night."

"I'll be there. The fucking Imp will holler at me, but I don't care. I should see you dancing and singing at least once in my life, I suppose."

Surprised and wondering if it was a good idea of not, she nodded then, on an impulse, she stood on tiptoe and gave him a chaste kiss.

"I'll open my window every night after my customer is gone, in case you want to sneak in," she told Sandor, as he walked to the bathroom.

She followed him and she stared at the tall man putting on his overcoat, trying to engrave in her memory the slightest detail of his face. One more feverish kiss by the window and he was gone.

* * *

All of a sudden, Meg was her friend again.

The girl's almond-shaped eyes shone with delight when Sansa opened the door to her, on the next afternoon, and much to Evie's surprise, she acted as if she and Sansa had never argued before. Meg chatted, did her share of needlework and casually announced Baelish had invited a seamstress to make several dresses for Sansa. The girl didn't know what to do with this information, but Meg's attitude puzzled her even more. Once the brunette left them, Evie and Sansa exchanged skeptical glances over their needlework; frowning, Evie titled her head back until her red bun rested on the armchair headrest and she stared at the ceiling.

"What do you think?" Sansa asked her, breaking the silence in the sunny bedroom.

Evie gazed at her and took her slate, before writing hastily: _"That's what a girl does when she wants to borrow some other girl's clothes."_

"I guess you're right."

They both resumed their needlework and for a while, they remained completely silent, though another question burned her lips. She tried to focus on the dress she was hemming, looked through the French window, chided herself and finally stopped struggling.

"Evie, you know," she muttered, "... the Hound keeps visiting me. I wondered something... When he came to visit you... how was he? I mean- Was he good with you? Was he-"

Evie silenced her with a frown before taking her slate again. _"He was a customer. Period."_

As Sansa's painful gaze probably moved her to pity, she added: _"You're the one he loves. I was a lookalike."_

"But-"

Again, she almost glared at Sansa, before writing down her thoughts in short sentences, showing them to her friend and wiping the slate to add something more.

_"There are things you don't need to know about him. Like what happened when he came to me last year. Don't count on me to reveal you any detail. Telling you would be a very bad idea. Because you're my friend and because he doesn't deserve it. Spend time with him and you'll figure out what he likes. And he'll figure out what you like."_

Her pale face exuded resoluteness when she locked eyes with a gaping Sansa. The girl read each sentence one after the other, surprised by Evie's firm gaze and by her loyalty. In the large house they lived in, among two dozens of women, Evie was hands down the only one who didn't enjoy to leak that kind of information. Anyone else, even girls she had come to know, like Edna, would have given her saucy details about their brief encounters. Evie didn't.

_"Is he good with you?"_ she nonetheless asked Sansa, slightly concerned.

She nodded vehemently.

_"That's all I need to know,"_ was her response.

* * *

"Shorter," Baelish ordered.

The seamstress came from one of the most expensive fashion houses in New York and she had brought with her samples of fabric as well as some costumes she had made for the Ziegfeld Follies and that had been rejected. They were in Sansa's bedroom, in front of the cheval mirror and the girl had put on one of the dresses that had been designed for the famous revue.

"Why not right here? Just below the knee..." Sansa suggested, while the seamstress, a fair-haired woman with oily skin, looked up at her. "That's fashionable."

"I said shorter."

Baelish sounded adamant and Sansa almost flinched. _Since when is he an expert in women's fashion?_ she nevertheless asked herself, trying to keep her apprehension at bay. The seamstress rolled her eyes and knelt down to shorten the dress. It was a sleeveless dress with a rather simple bodice. The detail that drew one's attention when looking at it was the skirt: instead of the loose tubular skirts every woman wore in the streets of Manhattan, it was made of several pieces that hung from the waist like petals, so that the skirt looked like a corolla. The fabric chosen – a cherry blossom pink wild silk – accentuated that impression.

"If you want me to shorten the dress above the knee, Sir, I'll have to change every piece of the skirt," the seamstress warned Baelish.

"That's why you're here," he retorted.

_A little courtesy wouldn't hurt,_ she thought, while the seamstress wiped her shiny forehead.

"For now, I'll just make a mark on the skirt with pins," the woman diligently explained Sansa. "Like this, Sir?"

Arching one eyebrow with a smug look on his face, Baelish nodded.

Sansa glanced at her reflection in the mirror and suddenly frowned. "How I am supposed to wear stockings with that dress?" she inquired in an undertone, hoping the seamstress would be the only one to hear her question. "They'll be visible if I dance."

She had underestimated Baelish's hearing, for he came closer and stopped right behind Sansa.

"That's the point, dear. When you dance and you spin on your heels, men will see your legs and that's exactly what we want. Shorter dresses, revealing clothes... that's what you'll wear from now on. For the shows and when you receive a customer. Most of your evening dresses are a bit dull."

_He doesn't mean it._ As he was a bit shorter than Sansa, she could feel his hot breath on her shoulder and it sickened her; she swallowed hard and fought back tears, imagining Sandor's reaction when he would see her scantily clad. She put on other dresses and outfits the seamstress had brought with her but Baelish didn't change his mind; he stubbornly ordered the woman to shorten the dresses and to show as much skin as possible.

"Why are you angry at me?" she asked him, once the seamstress was gone and she was wearing her ordinary clothes again.

He took his time before replying and all she could hear for long seconds was people shouting in the street, before his mocking tone made her skin crawl.

"Don't be so sure, dear! I'm not angry. Let's say that I acknowledge all the efforts you made to entertain your customers, like Berdokhovski, Tyrion Lannister or that drunken fool named Clegane. I have the utmost respect for your dedication and I therefore give you a little help."

_What does it mean? Is it a threat? Does he tell a lie to get at the truth?_

"Don't disappoint me, Sansa," he added ominously.

She was about to invoke her innocence when the shouting outside became louder and they heard agitation downstairs as if someone had broken through the massive entrance door. Startled, Baelish hurried on the landing and hurtled down the stairs; Sansa followed him out of curiosity.

The gust of icy wind struck her when she went downstairs: the entrance hall was crowded with panic-stricken girls and unknown women screeching slogans. Amid them, a disconcerted Lothor Brune tried to prevent the feminine assailants from reaching Baelish's office and unless he used his handgun, Sansa realized he couldn't do anything. Holding placards, the unknown women looked around until they spotted Baelish at the foot of the staircase.  _They're feminists,_ Sansa told herself, dumbstruck.

"Look, that's him!" shouted one of the women.

She was big-boned and she had a manly appearance with her short hair, her shady look and the strict, brownish suit she wore. Without a second thought, she shoved Jo who was on her way to the staircase before throwing herself on Baelish.

"Watch out, Obara!" another woman advised her.

"You exploit penniless women!" she barked while Baelish frantically tried to slap her. "You take advantage of them and you don't even hide your ugly business!"

More women shouted at him, but Sansa's attention was soon drawn to what happened on the threshold of Baelish's office: despite Lothor Brune and Peitho's efforts to prevent the feminists from going inside the room where the owner of the brothel kept all the important information about his customers, the protesters were about to force open the door. A slender black-haired woman seemed to defy Lothor Brune, with the help of a younger brunette and a pretty blonde. Using their placards as weapons or kicking, they got rid of Baelish's henchman in no time and they rammed the door until it opened. Still in the staircase, Sansa watched the scene, as some of Baelish's employees flooded back upstairs, bumping into the girl.

Edna stopped by her, eyes widening like saucers. "You know who these girls are?" she asked Sansa, despite the shouting in the hall.

"They're from the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, right?"

"It's more a radical group. People call them the Sand Snakes. They declared war to every cat house in town, and they fight like men."

She paused and Sansa saw utter fear in her eyes. "I didn't think they would dare to come here."

Below them, there was pandemonium in the entrance hall, and most of the girls tried to get upstairs while angry women kept flooding inside the house.

"Down with prostitution!" they shouted. "Women should be free!"

On a whim, Sansa hurried downstairs and made her way through the hall, shoving people and avoiding blows.

"What the hell are you doing?" she heard Edna yell, but she ignored her call.

If these women were as radical as Edna said, if they fought like men, she had to ask them a question. Despite the chaos surrounding her, she managed to reach one of the women who had broken through the office door and she tugged at her sleeve. She was fair-haired and her angel face surprised Sansa; as soon as the woman turned to her, she tilted her head and the girl couldn't help wonder if what she saw in her eyes was some kind of pity.

"You're against prostitution, right?" Sansa asked her.

It was so obvious the blond woman didn't take the trouble to answer; instead, she showed the havoc around them with a sweeping gesture.

"Can you help one of my friends to escape this place? She's pregnant-"

The blond girl cut her off at once. "Of course we can help her if she leaves this place and goes to our headquarter."

"But she can't leave!" Sansa protested, glancing around her to make sure people didn't listen. There was too much agitation though, and nobody paid attention. "We can't leave this place, that's why I need your help."

The blond woman's blue eyes narrowed and she bit her lip, seemingly at a loss. "We don't do that. I'm sorry. This is where you can find us," she told Sansa, giving her an address on a visiting card. "My name is Tyene. Unless you or your friend find a way to go out there, we can't help you."

Sansa took the visiting card with skepticism and shoved it into her pocket.

"Oh no!" the blond exclaimed, looking through the open entrance door. "The police is already here!"

Two police cars actually stopped on a dime and pulled over, in front of Baelish's house.

"Who warned them, for God's sake?" Baelish's assailant bellowed.

The fierce woman the others called Obara had overpowered Baelish but she had lost her hat during the fight and one of her sleeves was torn. Ironically, the feminists seemed much more scared by the police's arrival than Baelish and Peitho though they were those who made their fortune thanks to illegal activities. That reversal of the situation shocked Sansa before six policemen stormed into the house, billy club in hand.

The greatest confusion ensued, as every living soul in the entrance hall shouted; there were still protesters in Baelish's office, despite Lothor Brune's efforts to kick them out. While one of the policemen helped Baelish on his feet, two other men grasped his assailant round the waist and did their best to lead her outside. The Sand Snakes flailed and tried to hit them with their placards, still screeching.

Some of Baelish's employees couldn't avoid blows and Sansa stayed in a corner by the entrance, leaning back against a wall and observing the turmoil; at some point, she spotted Evie on the threshold of Baelish's office, eyes widening in panic and putting a protective hand on her belly. Just like Sansa, she was trying to make herself inconspicuous, except she was in the most confused place of the hall. She dodged a placard one of the protesters waved to make a policeman withdraw but when the policeman threw himself on the rebellious woman, they fell to the floor and dangerously landed next to Evie.

"Evie, no!" Sansa called across the hall, hoping she would step aside and take shelter from their blows.

Sansa never knew if her friend had heard her cry, but Lothor Brune did and he hurried to the pregnant woman, shielding her form with his body; afterward, he led her to the staircase, half carrying her. Walking along the walls to avoid the kicks, Sansa reached the staircase as well and crouched in front of Evie who was sitting down out of breath. As soon as she was sure Evie was alright – despite the visible fear in her eyes – Sansa turned to the sullen man who had saved her friend.

"Thank you, Sir," she said.

Lothor Brune didn't reply, apparently obsessed by the pregnant woman's health. He could have thrown questions thick and fast, asking Evie if she felt dizzy or if she wanted him to take her to her room, but he stared at her, speechless. After a while, he seemed to remember the confusion still surrounding them – though most of the protesters had fled or had been kicked out by the policemen and he stood up, then pointed at Sansa.

"You!" he barked. "You stay here and you take care of her!"

Sansa nodded shyly, then watched him walk away. _What was that?_ she mused, sitting down on a stair, next to Evie's trembling form and cradling her. _He sounded like Sandor when he talks about me. He likes her._ At that moment, Lothor Brune snatched the wrist of one the last protesters, yelled at her so that she ran off and he glanced at the girls sitting on the stairs. _He could fall in love with her._ And suddenly, despite the pitiful condition of the hall, despite Baelish's threatening attitude some minutes earlier, she saw a silver lining.

* * *

_Self-inflicted torture._ If Sansa had to describe what she and Sandor experienced that night, even before the show in the meeting hall began, she would have chosen these words.

Some customers came in the large room, but most of them were already sitting behind small tables – Tyrion Lannister still having the table for two front-and-center - and a few of them were standing by the bar. Sandor was among them. He already leaned his elbows on the counter five minutes before, when she had first spotted him, and he had not moved since; she guessed he would stay there until the end of the show. _Unless he decides to do something stupid._

She was in the wings, peeking into the meeting hall thanks to the gap between two folding screens, and she had never felt so helpless. The lump in her throat became more and more painful, as she examined all the reasons why she was uncomfortable: she had to entertain the men who had come that night, even though it meant hurting Sandor's feelings. To her great embarrassment, Baelish had given specific orders about the outfits she had to wear onstage and there was this new dance act with Peitho – a tango – that annoyed her a bit. How Sandor would react, when someone would whistle at her?

Yet she had to behave as usual that night, or Baelish would notice it. In this case, he could connect the dots and Sansa didn't want to think about the consequences. Sandor's attitude, elbows rooted to the counter, worried her as well; since his arrival, he apparently sought solace at the bottom of a bottle of Irish whiskey. Beyond the fact that she didn't approve of his drinking habits, she feared the outcome if something happened.  _He shouldn't have come,_ she thought bitterly. _We can't spend time together during nights like this one, we have to pretend we barely know each other, so what's the point? We're torturing ourselves and that's nonsense._

Behind her, in the wings, girls were much more joyful in the last minutes before the curtain was raised. Meg had just crossed the meeting hall clad in a new evening dress, and some men had done a double take when she had passed them. When she reached the wings, a proud smile on her lips, Viola couldn't help exclaiming:

"Nice dress. Where did you get it?"

"Baelish gave it to me," the girl replied, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing as she grinned.

Viola arched an eyebrow, wondering about Meg's mysterious answer, and she nudged Edna. "Did you see that?"

"I wonder what kind of sexual favor she sold to get that dress," Edna commented as Meg walked away.

"Why does it sound both classy and pervert in your mouth?"

"Because I'm the classy one," Edna said triumphantly. "According to you, what did she agree to do? Some blow job?"

"Are you kidding me?" Viola protested. "All I got for a blow job was a pair of novelty earrings. That bastard had the gall to tell me he had never enjoyed himself like that, he gave me these stupid earrings and the mother-of-pearl peeled away after a week."

Edna chuckled. "A whole night with Baelish, then?"

"He falls asleep very quickly. He's nothing but a night owl. Not the resistant type either if you see what I mean. Even when you try to stimulate him." Viola's voice went husky as if she was going through her encounter with Baelish again and Sansa guessed the dark-haired girl had spared no effort.

"What about-" Edna began to whisper. "What about some game with... accessories?"

"He's not into that kind of games," Viola explained, shaking her head.

"You really tried everything with him, right?" Edna asked her.

"I wanted my bedroom back," she confessed, looking daggers at Sansa.

The girl had better things to do than worrying about the grudge Viola held against her: she hurriedly left the wings and walked to Tyrion's table, before Lothor Brune stopped her.

"I want a few words with Mr. Lannister," she explained and the man instantly stepped back.

Tyrion had seen her and he frowned over his cocktail when she leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

"Good evening. I'm glad you're here. Can you keep an eye on Sandor?"

They both glanced at the tall figure with slumped shoulders standing next to the counter.

"I'm not his mother," Tyrion retorted with a mocking smile. "Besides, my neighbor is staring at your never-ending legs, my dear."

_That damn dress,_ Sansa mentally complained. She stood up straight, smoothing the skirt of her dress and ignoring the neighbor's lustful gaze. "Please. We have to stick together if you want him to keep his promise," she reminded Tyrion.

He nodded. "I'll see to it."

She was about to leave him – the band was already tuning their instruments after all – when she gave a last glance to Sandor. Jaded, he was observing her; he took in her hesitation, her stillness that bordered on paralysis because she didn't want to push her luck by heading toward him, and he slowly lifted his half-empty glass in a mocking gesture. He stayed like this for a second, the very image of disillusionment. Her chest constricting, she held his gaze but she didn't move for his bitter, weary look petrified her. The notion she might have already spoiled everything between them was unbearable.

The next moment, he was sweeping the room, looking at the customers who leered at the red-haired girl wearing a pink dress which skirt suggested a corolla. Upstairs, he could tell himself she was his and only his. In the meeting hall, she was their thing, she was the girl men shamelessly ogled. If Sansa had trouble connecting the Hound and the man Sandor truly was underneath his brutal outward appearance, she feared the gap between the inexperienced girl he had promised to save and the Queen of Sheba Baelish wanted her to be was too deep to narrow. He simply couldn't like or trust the girl she was in the meeting hall, smiling back at her admirers. On the evidence of his balled fist, Sansa could tell he was smelling blood.

During the first act, the most difficult part for Sansa wasn't her songs – she mastered them by now and she wasn't afraid anymore when onstage – but the dance act with Peitho. Whether it was true or not, Peitho claimed she had learned how to tango in Argentina and she was actually a very good tango dancer. She had taught Sansa the basic movements during the last few weeks and they had both imagined a dance routine afterward.

Peitho played the part of a man and proudly wore a black suit. Her blond hair was brushed back and hidden under a fedora, while Sansa had donned a less unconventional outfit: she wore a red dress which skirt was slit and black T-strap shoes. As the band began to play a famous ballroom tango song, the madam smiled at Sansa in the wings and theatrically offered her her arm.

It was strange to dance knowing that Sandor observed her; not that he had ever expressed the wish to dance with her nor to watch her dance for him only but she realized now how the dance movements mimicked caresses and lovers' gesture. She never made a single mistake during the dance routine but Peitho instinctively sensed her unease and she gave her an inquiring look from time to time. They swirled, pretended to reject one another or to make up, and every time Sansa thought about the man she loved; all this was a sinister buffoonery and she wondered why she had not discouraged Sandor from coming. _I suffer,_ she mused, as the last chorus began. _He suffers. He doesn't need to see me like this, exposed like a piece of meat before these men. It was a very bad idea._ As expected in their dance routine, she finally bent backwards, eyes closed, guided by Peitho. _That's the end of the first act. During the intermission, I'll-_

She suddenly felt Peitho kissing her lips and she opened her eyes at once, before pulling away so clumsily she stumbled. Behind her, she heard the audience's raucous laughter as she stepped back, looking for the wings and unable to take a proper bow. Speechless, she stared at Peitho who diligently thanked the spectators; the madam motioned her to the forestage with an incline of her head and Sansa had no choice but to comply.

"What was that?" she asked the blond woman once they were in the wings. "When did you decide to do this?"

Peitho removed her hat and started to free her golden curls from the hairpins. "I did it on an impulse. I think it was fun and transgressive. Why are you mad at me? People loved it!"

"I'm not that kind of girl!" Sansa declared.

The madam rolled her eyes and cupped Sansa's chin. "First of all, you don't know anything about love, darling. And... you'll have to be that kind of girl if your customer wants you to."

Sansa glared at her before showing a clean pair of heels and walking to the spot where she had left her clothes. _I need to talk to Tyrion. I need to make sure Sandor isn't furious because of what I did onstage. I need to explain him I didn't know Peitho would kiss me._ Nervous and ungainly, she was still struggling with her stupid tango clothes when Peitho exited the now deserted wings. Finally, clad in a flimsy dress that wasn't scanty enough by Baelish's new standards, she left the wings. When they had turned the meeting hall into a sort of auditorium, they had marked the limits of the wings by putting there several folding screens that protected the girls from the men's curious eyes; Sansa stopped next to them and observed the crowd.

Most of the girls were flirting and drinking with customers, while some left the meeting hall to go upstairs. Lothor Brune was scanning the room as usual and Baelish was deep in conversation with wealthy customers. Sandor stood next to the bar. She now realized visiting her in her bedroom was dramatically different for Sandor from watching her onstage; if only he hurried from the entrance door to her bedroom and focused on what they had to tell to each other, he could forget – briefly – where she lived and what she did for a living. When he saw her among these men who looked hard on her, he couldn't ignore the most cruel aspect of her social status: in their eyes she was a prostitute – perhaps not de facto but a prostitute all the same. They stared at each other across the room and Sandor's weary look disturbed her so much she didn't see the drunken man heading toward her until he clumsily took her hand.

"What do you want?" she asked, uselessly raising her voice in surprise.

The man chuckled without apparent reason; the fine wool of his suit and the ribbon on his chest proved he was a former officer. _Did he fight in Europe or is he a veteran of the Spanish-American War?_ she wondered, looking at his paunch, his wrinkles and his gray hair. He annoyed her so much she felt like being mean to him. _Maybe the Indian Wars, after all._

"Come with me," the man urged her. His clammy hand squeezed hers. "Come... sweet girl. I- I have a table out there... and afterward- afterward we can..."

The smell of alcohol was so obvious when he talked to her Sansa felt sick. Sandor watched them from the bar and his gaze unsettled Sansa, preventing her from responding normally to the man's offer. She mindlessly stepped back, thus getting closer to the wings.

"I'm sorry," she answered, trying to put as much space between herself and the old officer as possible, even if he refused to let go of her hand. "I have to go."

"No, no."

The man held her hand and he stroked it, shaking his head like a stubborn child. She saw from the corner of her eye Sandor who began to cross the room and she panicked. _Everything is going out of hand. Think straight. Do something before Baelish sees you-_

"Come with me, beauty."

The man's grip on her hand tightened and, uninhibited with alcohol, he took a step forward to kiss her; they were now hidden by the screens and Sandor couldn't see them anymore. Frowning at the smell of whiskey, Sansa tried to free her hand from his, perhaps a bit too forcefully and it suddenly happened: the old officer lost his balance and pulled her down as he fell. Sansa hit the wooden floor and she felt the man's weight on her legs before she was able to open her eyes.

When she did, Sandor was already squatting next to her, mumbling incoherent words and trying to take her in his arms, though the officer's sprawled body prevented him from doing so. Several customers and musicians had rushed to see what had happened.

"I'm fine," she told Sandor, rubbing a spot behind her head. "Let go of me, please, if Baelish finds out..."

Lothor Brune arrived at that moment and he asked the spectators to move aside. He silently questioned Sansa.

"I'm fine," she repeated. "You should take care of him." With an incline of her head, she showed the officer.

"Brute," Sandor growled.

He supported her back and as he made her lean against him, she noticed his white knuckles. _He's furious._

"Shut up, for God's sake," Sansa whispered to him.

Lothor Brune helped the officer sit up then the old man got on his feet with difficulty. While the officer was standing up, she tried to move her right foot and suddenly felt a sharp pain.

"You can't move your leg?" Sandor inquired as the customers retreated to their tables.

Baelish chose that moment to show up, Meg on his heels. "What the hell is this?" he asked.

In the meanwhile, Sandor looked daggers at him and Sansa feared her boss discovered one of her most faithful visitors was more interested in her than in her dancing skills.

"Just one of your customers who threw himself on her," Sandor barked. "Without my intervention, he could have raped her."

Baelish's eyes narrowed and he glanced around his shoulder at the fat old man sat on a chair who cradled his head.

"He was just drunk," Sansa explained. "He stumbled. I know what you think, but he didn't throw himself on me."

Now that he was standing in front of her sitting form, Baelish towered above Sansa and Sandor, his dark silhouette preventing the girl from seeing what was going on in the meeting hall, like an extension of the folding screens: he looked at her coldly as she tried to escape Sandor's arms. Meg, a step behind, didn't miss a thing.

"Seems that you overreacted a bit, Clegane," Baelish commented, shoving his hands in his pockets.

The man crouching next to her exuded contained anger and for a heartbeat, she feared he would throw himself on Baelish. _Please don't. Don't ruin our efforts. Don't endanger yourself._

"Can you walk?" Baelish added. "Can you dance?"

"I don't have any dance act during the rest of the show," she replied, bending forward and trying to reach her sore ankle. "Besides, I won't sing my next song before half-an-hour, at the very least. I've got time to rest before going onstage again."

"What are you going to do about this man?" Sandor rasped, his gray eyes challenging Baelish.

"Nothing at all. Sansa made it clear. It's an unfortunate fall."

The two men watched her massaging her ankle and the girl smoothed her skirt, wishing she could have some privacy.

"Let me do it for you." Sandor's voice had softened to speak to her.

"Thank you, Sir," she answered, "but I'll be just fine. You certainly have better things to do than spending the intermission by my side."

Her tone was so icy Sandor's eyes widened. Offended by her distant attitude, he quickly got on his feet. _I hurt you, I know, but what am I supposed to do when you're being so protective and Baelish is looking at us?_ Unsure Baelish and Meg believed her, she focused on her foot and ignored them.

Tyrion's arrival was a relief. "What happened to you, dear?"

"I fell, that's all. I think I sprained my ankle."

This time, she donned her best smile to get on her feet. Despite the pain lingering on her ankle, she stood up with Meg's help and it was only when she stumbled that she realized she was unsteady. As if he had anticipated her dizziness, Sandor grabbed her firmly.

"I'm fine," she told them all. "I just need to rest for a short moment. I'm sorry, Mr Baelish."

"Let's go to your bedroom, then," Tyrion suggested. "This young girl will help you climb the stairs and I'll keep you company."

_He has a plan,_ she mused, praising his sharp mindedness.

"Meg will stay with you upstairs. I'm sure she won't mind." Baelish's order dampened her spirits until she found the perfect excuse.

"Meg can't stay," Sansa explained, shaking her head. "She's part of one tableau right after the intermission. But perhaps she could ask Evie to join us upstairs. If Mr Baelish agrees, that is to say."

Baelish's eyes moved between Tyrion and her for a few seconds and he finally announced: "Why not? Walk her to her bedroom, Meg, then tell Evie to come. I assume she must be upstairs."

"Frankly, Petyr, you sound like we need a chaperon, Sansa and I," Tyrion retorted. "Which is quite ironic, since I'm used to chaperon my dear nephew and his charming fiancee. Joff even referred to me as a 'fire extinguisher' yesterday."

Sandor stood in the background, ignored by them and Sansa wished she could reassure him. They were playing a dangerous game: if she talked to Sandor she ran the risk of arousing Baelish's suspicion. If she didn't, he would feel rejected and his anger would be out of control. He was so accustomed to this pattern since his childhood, so familiar with the feeling of being left behind that all the affection she had given him so far would count for nothing, just because she had answered him coldly once.

"A word, Clegane," Tyrion said curtly.

"Later," he growled.

"I need to talk to you now, I'm afraid."

_He has a plan indeed,_ she thought, as Tyrion led Sandor further. Baelish made sure Sansa could walk and left her with Meg, though she felt inexplicably ill-at-ease with the dark-haired girl. Tyrion came back to them and bombarded the girls with questions; the intermission was well-advanced when they crossed the meeting hall and she couldn't find Sandor. _Where is he?_ she suddenly wondered, terrified he could be already threatening the veteran he saw as a rapist. However, the fat officer was sitting behind a table, chatting with Jo – although the girl seemed to make all the conversation. Sandor wasn't either about to attack Baelish, who listened to a Congressman's jokes.

When they reached her bedroom, Sansa's ankle was still aching, but she already felt better. Meg helped her sit down on the edge of the bed while Tyrion stubbornly stood by the open door.

"Why don't you close that door?" Sansa asked. It was an old reflex: back in Saint-Paul, the mansion she lived in with her parents was rather cold despite the huge fireplaces, and Catelyn always insisted on keeping the doors shut.

"Your friend has to fetch that other girl, remember?" he replied.She didn't dare counter him and Meg left, not without smiling pretty at Tyrion. As soon as she was on the landing, Tyrion shut the door, revealing Sandor's tall frame: while Tyrion discussed with them, and delayed the girls, Sandor had exited the meeting hall before them and he had waited in her bedroom, hiding behind the door. _If he came, it means he can change his mind and listen to me._ Her hopes came to nothing the moment he stepped forward, when Sansa took in his somber mood. _What have I done?_

"Sandor," she began, swallowing hard, "I'm sorry-"

He scowled at her and all of a sudden, she felt as terrified by him as her older self in the Red Mansion. _As if what we tried to build during the previous months had been shattered_.

"Are you sure you want me to stay?" he rasped.

"Clegane, don't be stupid!" Tyrion sounded exasperated by his attitude, but Sandor silenced him with a glare, before pacing up and down.

They heard a knock at the door and Meg announced: "Evie's here, Sansa. Do you need something?"

Tyrion half-opened the door, while Sandor reluctantly hid himself behind it. "We're good, thank you!" he answered before letting Evie come in.

Once the door was shut again, Tyrion had trouble concealing his astonishment at the sight of a pregnant woman who looked like Sansa, carried a slate and didn't answer his greeting.

"Evie doesn't speak," Sansa explained him. "She knows everything, though. Come and have a seat, Evie. I'm sorry we bothered you."

Smiling shyly, Evie took a few steps further but she froze when she finally spotted Sandor. He avoided her gaze like he avoided Sansa's, folding his arms and squaring his shoulders.

"Can someone tell me what's going on?" Tyrion asked.

"Someday, maybe," Sansa offered with a sigh.

Evie sat down on the bed next to Sansa and she pointed at the girl's ankle.

"I fell, but I'm fine. It was more like an excuse to escape the meeting hall and to talk privately." Frowning, Evie gestured at the bathroom door. "No, stay please. I know we can talk in front of you, Evie."

The red-haired woman nodded and she wrapped her arm around Sansa's waist. Her down at heel skirt was in sharp contrast with Sansa's evening dress, yet Tyrion seemed to wonder about their likeness.

Sandor came closer, despite Evie's visible discomfort and he asked Tyrion: "Why did you want me to come here, Imp? I'd rather be downstairs, trying to find out where that bastard lives!"

"Quiet, now. I prevented you from doing something stupid, as you wouldn't listen to Sansa."

"He tried to rape her!" Sandor growled. "He shoved her behind the damn folding screens and he fell to the floor because he tried to rape her! Isn't that enough for you?"

"You're drunk," Tyrion commented, thus sparing Sansa the trouble to voice out loud what she had noticed for a while.

"Sandor, listen to me," she pleaded. "He didn't try to rape me. He's a drunkard and a galoot, but I can tell you he's not a rapist. Unfortunately, I know how rapists behave."

"You know nothing!"

"That man talked to me, he took my hand... You were across the room, you couldn't see properly!"

His eyes darkened and Evie's grip on her waist tightened as if the fragile woman sitting next to her could protect Sansa from Sandor's fit of temper.

"So I shouldn't have come to help you? Maybe I shouldn't have come at all. I made a big mistake the first time I came to visit you here. Fuck me, I offered you my help but you've decided you love this life after all!"

Tears welled up in her eyes, despite Evie's efforts to soothe her nerves.

"Don't mistake me," she explained. "I need you and I need your help, but I just want to make sure you won't attack this man because he doesn't deserve it-"

"Doesn't deserve it? He fondled you, he would have raped you had I not interfered!"

"You're drunk, Sandor! Can't you see you'll be in jail by tomorrow night if you go after him? For nothing, because he didn't hurt me."

Rage distorted his features and at that very moment, she sensed he wouldn't listen to her. _I need you to take me in your arms but you're so mad at me you don't even see it._ Tears began to roll down her cheeks yet nothing seemed able to move the man who stood in front of her, brooding over his vengeance. Putting aside her wobbling knees, Sansa got on her feet and stepped toward Sandor, then she tried to lock eyes with him.

"Promise you won't hurt this man," she begged, "and spend the night with me. I'll do whatever you want."

Tyrion and Evie were probably staring at her: she guessed Tyrion was shocked, but she was past the point of caring. It was like forcing him to choose between the two things that drove him so far: his tendency to violence and his obsession for her. Sansa thought in earnest she could be stronger than years spent fighting in back alleys and fostering a thirst for vengeance. Sandor studied her face for a while before his dark, saturnine laugh crushed her hopes again.

"Listen to yourself! Always naïve and well meaning, yet giving yourself to a dog!" he rasped.

"You can't talk about us like that!"

His eyes challenged her and for the first time in weeks, she wondered if she knew the man who looked at her up and down.

"Stop torturing her, Clegane," Tyrion said. "All this is nonsense-"

"No one touches her," Sandor hissed, on the verge of tears. "No one. That's why I'm going to follow and to kill this bastard."

"Don't do that, Sandor, or I swear you'll never see me again."

Despite her pain, despite the attraction she felt for him – even if he was drunk and rude and everything she thought she hated at that moment – she sensed that barring him her door was her last asset. There was so much at stake that she didn't hesitate before giving him her ultimatum; it was only when she stopped talking and waited for his answer that her mouth went dry. She realized she would lose as much as him if she ever had to follow through with threats. His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward just enough to level his stare.

"I don't need anyone's fucking approval to do what's right. I'm done with orders. I'll kill him with or without your agreement."

Before she could say anything in protest, he had crossed the room and slammed the door.

* * *

The minutes after Sandor left were wrapped in a shocked, tear-strained haze. She remembered Evie cradling her and Tyrion promising Sandor would crawl back to her and make amends. Sansa didn't care about amends; she wanted Sandor to come back now and to comfort her, to tell her they would escape before Addam Marbrand or anyone else understood he had killed three persons so far to protect her. At some point, she even considered to talk to the old officer and to warn him he could be in danger, but Tyrion told her not to do so.

"I'll take care of him," he explained.

"But how?"

Tyrion shrugged. "I'll invite him to have a drink with me at the end of the show. I guess Clegane won't attack us on our way to the Red Mansion."

"Are you mad? What will happen once you're both..."

"Drunk? Ossified? Plastered? Fried to the hat? Well, dear, I sincerely doubt that at that moment Sandor attacks him, if your old suitor is steady enough to leave the Mansion. Besides, I'd love to see my father's reaction when he'll find us, at daybreak, knocking back his most expensive bottles."

Sansa gaped. "How can you be so careless? We're talking about a man's life! And Sandor could go to jail."

"Trust me. And wipe your tears. I'll walk you to the meeting hall."

She complied and Evie helped her powder her nose and adjust her hair before leaving the bedroom. As she was on the landing, she heard Tyrion asking Evie to take care of her. "And take care of yourself," he added.

The second act had begun for twenty minutes when they pushed the heavy doors of the meeting hall and their arrival caused a stir. Tyrion went back to his table while she headed to the wings, ignoring the girls' whispers about her late coming.

She sang _'The Sheik of Araby'_ in a new outfit that reminded her of belly dancers: low-cut bodice – something more akin to a brassiere, according to her – and revealing harem pants, along with tinkling jewelry. Behind her, the girls ridiculously swayed their hips and in the end, they giggled at the round of applause, probably taking credit for the spectators' enthusiasm. Looking at the audience, Sansa spotted Baelish sitting with Tyrion: the dark-haired man stroked his whiskers while people clapped their hands and he finally motioned her to join them with a quick gesture.

Docile and quiet despite the hatred she harbored for him, she left the stage and headed toward their table, still wearing the ridiculous costume that made her look like some oriental concubine. _Straight out of the slave market. No wonder Sandor felt angry and betrayed when he saw me onstage._ Baelish offered her his seat and he stood behind her, resting his hand on the back of her chair and making her skin crawl as the two men resumed their conversation.

"Like I said, Petyr, you're wasting this girl's talent," Tyrion commented, while a bunch of Sansa's companions began to dance on some mushy song. "She's good, she could make more money as a professional singer than she actually does."

"And I would deprive my customers – including you, Tyrion – from her _other_ talents? No, I can't do that."

Baelish's hands came imperceptibly closer to her shoulders and Sansa shifted. Leering at her wasn't enough: now he wanted to touch her skin. To her great surprise, Tyrion's neighbor involuntarily came to her rescue by asking Baelish if he could take a seat instead of getting in his way. Baelish reluctantly complied, taking an empty chair and sitting next to Tyrion. Her jewelery tinkled when she gave a look at the man and smiled at him gratefully, even if he couldn't possibly understand why his complaint was such a relief for her.

"Do you have any idea of how much money singers make these days? Recording has become an industry, Petyr," Tyrion insisted, "and the girl sitting across me is a gem."

His compliment forced a smile out of her.

"You don't get my point, Tyrion. Your nephew didn't send Sansa to this place to let her become a singer. What would he say if I change my mind and tell him that his ex fiance is going to record some love songs? To have her face and her name on posters? Joffrey wants her to live in this brothel." He paused and Sansa felt a surge of anger for the young man she had once loved. Baelish used her, but all things considered, he just carried out Joffrey's orders. "That being said, you can make a difference for Sansa." Baelish moderated his previous remark with a knowing smile.

"I think I can do that," Tyrion confirmed, locking eyes with the girl.

"If you will excuse me," she said, "I have to get ready for my last song."

Sansa left them, feeling Baelish's hot gaze on her back as she retreated to the wings. Though her night had been nerve-wracking, she was determined not to sing her last song like the docile employee Baelish wanted her to be. She donned an evening dress he would have called 'dull', long gloves and black pumps and instead of going onstage directly, she went to the musicians who stayed in front of the folding screens that demarcated the wings.

"The song," she told them, "I'd like you to play it like you did two days ago."

"No no no," Chester replied in an undertone. "You go onstage and we play it as usual."

Chester was the piano player Marillion's former band had hired to replace their missing leader. He came from South Carolina and he was so hard-working and so talented he had quickly imposed himself as a full-fledged member, even if he was the only colored man in the band. Sansa had the highest respect for his skills but Chester's stubbornness sometimes irritated her.

"Please," she said. "I don't ask for much."

People began to whisper as the whole thing looked like an incident. The trumpet player, that red-haired man who always played with enthusiasm no matter the circumstances, stood up for her.

"Come on, Chester," he told him. "Do as the girl says. She always falls on her feet."

He winked at her and Chester lifted his hands in acquiescence.

"And... Stop before the last chorus," she asked them.

"You want to sing it a cappella?" Chester almost exclaimed.

"Got it, Ma'am," the trumpet player answered, always compliant.

Sansa's act of rebellion thus began by a long silence as the spectators wondered what was happening and she took a perverse pleasure in watching Baelish nervously shifting on his chair. She didn't hurry and she slowly walked to the microphone. Stopping on the forestage, she brushed the long silvery straight stand and she glanced at the audience. Baelish stared at her with a mix of anger and anxiety.

_You wish you'd know what I'm going to do, right? You think I'm being disobedient? Your forehead is sweaty, now. How does it feel to be under someone else's control? How does it feel to be helpless? Call it retaliation, but that's nothing compared to the wrong you did tonight. You hurt me and you hurt the man I love._

Chester tried to lock eyes with her; she nodded and they began to play _'A Good Man Is Hard To Find'_. Sansa didn't want to sing it the way Marion Harris did: her merry, almost bouncy rendition of the song exasperated her. _The lyrics are so sad, so bitter, and she sings the song as if it was a joke._ Two days ago, during a rehearsal, the band had tried a new version with a slower, almost languid rhythm. It matched so perfectly the despair the lyrics conveyed - and her mood that night - she wanted to sing it this way, even if the man she was in love with couldn't listen to her.

_My heart is sad and I am forlorn_

_My man's treating me mean_

_I regret the day that I was born_

_And that man of mine I've never seen_

_My happiness, it never lasts a day_

_My heart is almost breaking, while I say_

_A good man is hard to find_

_You always get the other kind_

As she was singing, she realized she probably looked gloomy and offered the exact opposite of what the men watching her came for: true emotion, simplicity. Yet, when she saw their eyes widening, and their reverential silence despite the large amount of alcohol most of them had been drinking, despite the girls sitting on their lap, she asked herself what Sandor would have said of such a song. _Would you like it? Would you give me all your attention? Would you understand that this good man I'm talking about is you?_

_A good man is hard to find_

_You always get the other kind_

_Just when you think that he is your pal_

_You look for him and find him foolin' 'round some other gal_

_Then you rave, you even crave_

_You want to see him in his grave_

Baelish wiped his forehead with his handkerchief before standing up and walking to the wings. She focused on the men sitting at the other end of the meeting hall instead. _Love hurts. Much more than I imagined and we have more imagination than needed to make the ones we love suffer. Sometimes we make them suffer unwillingly. Like what happened tonight. I found a good man, but maybe I already lost him._

All of a sudden, the music stopped, as she had demanded it and some spectators gaped, wondering what was next. Head-high and with no other help than the rhythm that lingered on her mind, she sang, slowly, on the verge of tears:

_So if your man is nice, take my advice_

_And hug him in the morning, kiss him ev'ry night_

_Give him plenty lovin', treat him right_

_For a good man nowadays is hard to find_

There was a silence. Sansa still fought back tears and she made a tremendous effort not to cry when the audience burst into applause. She took a bow and she gestured at the musicians who had trusted her and who congratulated themselves. The spectators went on clapping and for the first time, Sansa felt like these men appreciated her voice rather than her good looks. A bit dizzy and still aware of the void in her heart, she retreated to the wings and almost bumped into Baelish.

"Impressive," he commented. He looked sincere, for a change, but his words in no way quelled her anger. "I first thought you were going to do a big mistake, Sansa, but there's not a single man in this room who doesn't wish he could give you some comfort now."

She snorted at that and moved past him. There was only one man who could comfort her and she wondered where he was.


	17. Red Light District

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you know why I bought this exquisite pair of shoes you're not wearing?" Baelish asked her.  
> He sounded reproachful and threatening.  
> "Because you're generous, obviously."  
> As her flattering response didn't have any effect on him, Sansa closed her eyes briefly, fearing his anger.  
> "All this has nothing to do with generosity, I'm afraid. You're going to do me a favor and... hard work deserves a fair reward."  
> He paused, giving her more time than necessary to imagine what he wanted. She shuddered and her fingers curled into balled fists. Not that kind of favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta reader did a great job with this chapter: thank you, Underthenorthernlights!
> 
> This chapter is dark, so decide for yourself: warning for violence, violence against women, prostitution, non con, suicidal thoughts. If you're not comfortable with one of these themes, you probably shouldn't read this.

A reddish light colored the horizon when Aubrey McMillan Jr, exited the lavish house his new pal lived in. _But what's his name again? What in tarnation is wrong with me?_ Snow-covered gravel scrunched under his unsteady feet as he crossed the yard then reached the high wall protecting the red-brick mansion from curious eyes. _The day is new,_ he thought, once he pushed open the florid metal gate and stopped on the muddy sidewalk.

The strangest haze wrapped the street and he saw wisps of smoke emanating from some manhole. The street disappearing in the haze was an uncanny sight. Or was it some liquor-induced haze? Aubrey didn't know and he didn't care. He didn't feel the headache that was his ordinary companion after nights like this one and that was enough. All he knew was that he had a new friend, a younger, blond friend who barely reached his middle and waddled on twisted legs. Despite his less than attractive appearance, his new friend was shrewd and he was the best companion he could dream of for a drinking session. _Witty, never stingy on amusing stories and made of money,_ he enumerated to himself. _I can't believe I drank with Tywin Lannister's son! But what's his first name again?_

Aubrey didn't remember and it wasn't that important, all things considered: he had spent an incredible night in Petyr Baelish's brothel – though many details remained vague – and he had had a great time with his new friend who had insisted on taking him home. Why exactly did he want me to come with him? Aubrey's memory failed him but it didn't matter. _I'm going to hail a cab._

Stumbling, he waited there for a minute before making out a car in the mist. He lifted his hand tentatively, despite the icy wind, wondering if he had change at all – he couldn't remember what he still had in his pockets – but the car ignored him and it was only when it moved away that Aubrey realized it was not a cab. He chuckled, at himself and at the incongruous situation, and his hearty laugh broke short in the silence of the deserted street. Some poor devil swept the opposite sidewalk, a bit further away, but Aubrey couldn't call him company, could he? _It seems as though all the taxi drivers decided to sleep in,_ he mentally complained. _People don't learn the rewards of hard work anymore. No wonder Pershing disgraced himself during the Pancho Villa Expedition and spent one year searching for a Mexican bandit to finally return empty-handed._

Lamenting about the fate of the American Army he had served in for forty years, like his father Aubrey Sr, who was covered in decorations, for all the good it did to him, he observed the surroundings with boredom as the typical pins and needles appeared in his head. _Hell, no. Not that bloody headache again._ The reddish hue stretched in the sky, but the smoke-like wisps of mist were not about to dissipate.

For some reason, the wreath of smoke that still escaped the manhole reminded him of something he had seen the night before. His head now pounding, he tried to remember what had happened. There were girls in this brothel who danced and who contorted themselves to some oriental music. There was someone onstage with harem pants and tinkling jewelry. Now that alcohol had saturated his body and that headache had begun torturing him, the mere notion of tinkling jewels was painful. Gracefully painful.

The girl was pretty and she looked sad, despite the amusing song she sang. Neither the fancy clothes she wore nor the silvery jewels on her head, wrists and ankles seemed to alleviate the distress she obviously felt. The memory of the clank the bracelets produced every time she moved accentuated the throbbing pain in his head. He winced and put a protective hand on his paunch as if he feared to throw up.

Aubrey gazed at the end of the street, hoping some cab would finally arrive, and that was when he saw him.

A tall man with such an impressive frame Aubrey wondered if he didn't rave. The dark silhouette emerged from the mist walking slowly toward him; against the morning light, the man's features were impossible to identify and Aubrey couldn't help gaping. For a second, he thought that maybe, this ghost – for the man looked like a ghost – was there to get back at him, to kill him like he had killed people on homeland – out there, somewhere in the West – or abroad, when he fought in the Philippines. _It could be a ghost,_ he mused, mesmerized by the sight of the tall, broad-shouldered figure taking his time to reach his prey.

The silhouette came closer, lifted his hand and hit his skull so forcefully the face of the first man he had killed was the last ghostly image he saw before passing out. 

* * *

Strutting his scars and his smug half-smile in the entrance hall that still bore marks of the Sand Snakes' unexpected visit, Tyrion came to see Sansa the night after the show. She had a customer that night – some Congressman who literally drooled while looking at her – so Tyrion had to wait until the man was gone to talk to her.

Peitho smiled knowingly when Sansa appeared in the staircase, walking her slobbery customer back to the hall. The girl donned her best smile but she had trouble hiding her nervousness. She had thought about the last events all day long and, according to her, Tyrion could only be there for two reasons: telling her Sandor was safe or warning her he was already in custody, and the second hypothesis seemed more likely with each passing hour. Sansa stopped in the staircase, her hand firmly holding the guardrail and her mouth went dry as she tried to find any trace of reassurance on Tyrion's asymmetric features. _He looks preoccupied,_ she thought. Her knuckles became white yet she plastered a smile on her face and resumed her walk downstairs to welcome him.

Tyrion asked Peitho if he had to pay for this but the madam protested and magnanimously let them go to Sansa's bedroom. Once they were away from prying eyes, Tyrion relaxed a bit and he settled himself in the large leather armchair, before Sansa told him to do so. Hesitating, the girl stood for a while in front of him before sitting down on the edge of her bed. _Whatever he has to say, I'd better be sitting._

Tyrion cleared his throat. "I've got good news and bad news, dear. The good news is, Clegane isn't in jail and your... old admirer whom I spent some time with is alive."

"What's the bad news, then?" she managed to ask.

The man avoided her gaze and shifted on the oversized seat, uncomfortable. "McMillan... This former officer who bothered you... He spent the rest of the night drinking with me in the Red Mansion's kitchens, then he left, at daybreak." He paused. "Clegane was waiting for him outside and he tried to attack him. McMillan is in hospital. I saw to it. And he'll be fine in a few days. I paid him a visit this afternoon and the poor devil doesn't remember anything. Alcohol, I guess. I'd say they treat him for his hangover rather than for the blow he received."

"Does it mean Sandor hit him only once?"

"Seems so. I didn't even had to convince your beloved Hound to stop, he just mumbled incoherent words and headed to his room, with his tail between his legs."

Shocked, Sansa frowned at his words.

Tyrion apologetically lifted his hands. "Forget it, dear."

Wringing her hands, Sansa sighed. Her eyes moved from the oriental patterns on the rug to the phonograph, looking for comfort in the now familiar decoration of her room. She suddenly realized something was amiss.

"There's more and you wish you could keep it from me," she stated, catching Tyrion unaware. "What is it?"

He held her stare, reluctantly. In his mismatched eyes, Sansa saw apprehension and something akin to anger.

"The police came to the Red Mansion, Sansa. Nothing related to McMillan, though, as I took him to the hospital right after he lost consciousness. Addam Marbrand came and he asked us a few questions about Meryn Trant. My father reminded Marbrand about the favors he did for him, years ago."

Her eyes fell on her lap and she shook her head in denial.

"You warned him, dear, and you were right. With every death, every incident like what happened last night, the police gets closer."

"Did your father convince Marbrand?"

"I wish he had. Marbrand feels guilty, in all likelihood. Because my brother Jaime and him were friends, because Father helped him and not just once. He knows he's in debt but he's persuaded one of us has something to do with Trant's death. In a way, my father's lecture spurred him and made him want to follow this lead."

Silence stretched between them as they were both deep in thought. Sansa remembered the detective's visit, weeks before, after Meryn Trant's body had been found in the East River. His seriousness, his intelligence, the veiled threats his words conveyed: all these impressions were etched in her memory. Addam Marbrand was daunting because he was smart and because truth was all he wanted. Neither money nor anything else could bribe a man like Marbrand.

"I worry about you, Sansa," Tyrion confessed suddenly, making her jump.

"Sandor is the one who takes risks."

"You take a risk every time you let him spend the night with you. I'm not only talking about Baelish who could find you together... You trust him... blindly. But he's- He's the Hound. He can hurt you." He swallowed hard and Sansa felt her cheeks grow hot. "You could get pregnant."

"That's none of your business," she retorted.

 _He thinks we're already lovers._ That notion was confusing, yet she admitted what she had told Sandor in front of Tyrion and Evie could let them believe she had given herself to him. Should she deny it? Could she say they were not lovers after what had happened between them, on Sandor's birthday? Her cheeks aflame, she avoided his gaze. Regardless of her desire for privacy, Sansa didn't know if telling Tyrion was necessary or not. Tyrion wasn't her kin, nor her friend. _Just an ally,_ she mused, though her sudden coldness toward a man who had tried to give her useful advice somewhat disturbed her.

"I'm worried," he insisted, sounding older now, as if her father's death had given any grown man the right to treat her as their child.

"I'm afraid you can't understand."

Her petulant answer made him snort and he contemplated her for a while before commenting: "Young people always think they knew everything about life, especially when they're in love. This self-confidence is their downfall."

"No offense," she said, "but what do you know about young people?"

Sansa was aware she looked jaded, legs crossed and slightly bending backwards, as she propped herself on her arms. _The perfect image of the flapper, it seems._

"I was one of them. I fell in love."

Behind the armor he donned when he met people, making fun of his interlocutors and stringing jokes together, Tyrion was vulnerable. The absence of irony in his tone struck Sansa and she immediately wished she could take back her words.

"You don't ask me what happened?" he went on, trying to sound lighthearted and failing miserably.

"What happened?" She shifted and sat up straight, demurely putting her hands on her lap. A knot in her stomach, she waited for his answer, anticipating the awkwardness and the compassion she would necessarily feel for the short, sharp-witted man sitting across her.

"She- She loved me too. So we got married. My father found out and he disapproved, obviously. She died."

His confession left a taste of ashes in Sansa's mouth. What he implied was so terrible she was unable to speak at first, but the polite girl her mother had raised was never very far. "I'm awfully sorry, Tyrion."

"You were but a little girl and you lived in the North. You couldn't know. For reasons you can imagine, this is not the kind of story the Lannisters often tell their friends to entertain them during never-ending suppers."

Sansa closed and opened her eyes again once or twice, as if this childish gesture could erase what had happened to Tyrion's young wife.

"Sandor would never let something like that happen," she thought out loud.

Tyrion snorted. "You think I let that happen to her?"

"No, of course not! That's not what I meant and-"

"Maybe you're right, after all. Maybe I let that happen to my beloved Tysha."

He got on his feet and Sansa feared he might walk away like that, leaving her alone and without more information concerning Sandor. _I'm selfish,_ she chided herself. _I should apologize instead of complaining because I don't know when I'll see Sandor again. Maybe he's right about careless young people._

"Wait," she said.

He was on his way to the door, his faint scowl accentuating the grotesque scar he had received the night the Lannister men fought the police in Blackwater Bay. He briskly turned to her, waving his short arms in a theatrical gesture.

"I'm sorry Tyrion. I sounded judgmental. I can't think straight these days. And you have every right to think I behave like a stupid girl who's in love."

Tyrion let out a deep sigh, staring into space. "As I said, he'll crawl back to you. Joffrey needed him tonight, for one of his endless meetings, but Clegane told me to ask you if he could visit you tomorrow night. I suppose he wants to apologize, if he ever figures out what apology means."

Sansa didn't raise his cutting remark and instead, she nodded. "Tell him the window will be open," she muttered.

"I'll convey your message. I'm playing Cupid tonight; the bow and arrow are missing, but I already look like a blond, chubby little boy."

His self-deprecating humor struck Sansa, once more, and she wished he could forgive her. The immeasurable sadness she saw in his eyes belied his playful tone.

"Young lovers are careless, Sansa," he said, becoming serious again. "No matter how old Clegane is, he's just as careless as you are when it comes to your relationship. In my opinion, you're more sensible than him, that's why I talked to you like I did. I'm not judging. I was careless. We were careless... and she died. I don't want you to get hurt, that's all."

Speechless, she couldn't take her eyes off of his distorted face. Something wet fell on her collarbone and that's how she realized she had been crying silently. Tyrion's concern was unforeseen and she rued her inability to find the proper words, while he still contemplated the effect of his tirade on her.

"Well, dear, we have a part to play. Wipe your tears and smile pretty before walking me downstairs. The Russian woman expects us to behave like these young, careless lovers we were talking about."

She dabbed her wet cheeks with a handkerchief as he offered her his arm. 

* * *

Still behaving like they had never argued, Meg knocked at her door the morning after; she carried a parcel. Eyes widening in silent trepidation, Sansa let her come in. _Careful now. You don't want to quarrel – again – over a stupid gift._

Meg's almond-shaped eyes wandered as usual in her bedroom, taking in the decoration. "Baelish sent this to you," she explained Sansa, still looking around.

Her tone was matter-of-fact rather than ironic or envious and despite her even tone, Sansa's apprehension didn't vanish; on the contrary, her clammy hands proved she was a bundle of nerves.

"Do you want to sit down?" Sansa offered, eager not to irritate the dark-haired girl. "I think I've got some chocolates a customer gave me."

Before Meg answered, she hurried to the desk where she had left the box full of chocolates. _'The little bird is fluttering in her cage'._ She could imagine Sandor's comment if he could see her now. _I'm afraid,_ she realized. _Meg's attitude frightens me._ She instantly came back to the girl, offered her some chocolates and tried to regain her composure.

"Well, let's see what's in this box."

"Do you want me to leave?" Meg asked.

Sansa swallowed hard; the girl standing in front of her didn't intend to walk away, she could see it in her eyes. "Let's open it together!"

If Sansa's feigned cheerfulness didn't convince Meg, she didn't say anything and held out the box to her. Sansa recognized the initials of a well-known shoemaker. She sat down on her bed and Meg followed suit, as she removed the box lid. Translucent wrapping paper hid a pair of peach high-heeled shoes and if Sansa didn't know this gift came from Baelish, she would have genuinely marveled at the sight of it. Instead, she politely smiled and grabbed one of the shoes to take a good look at the peach leather.

She had always loved shoes and now that she lived in Baelish's house, each customer who visited her was a good reason to wear the most extravagant pumps one could find in New York. But these shoes, with their high heel, the silvery leather that lined the throat and the counter, their peep toe and the peach satin ribbon by way of lace were amazing. _More than that, these shoes are made for me._

And suddenly, as the touch of smooth leather forced a smile out of her, Sansa froze. _Baelish knows exactly what I like._ He knew her taste for shoes especially high-heeled ones. He knew the colors she liked and he expected her eyes to widen when she would see the tiny details like the satin ribbon, the peep toe, that made this pair of shoes unique. That was disturbing.

Meg nudged her, bringing Sansa back to reality. "They're pretty. Won't you try them on?"

Another fake smile and Sansa kicked off her black Mary Jane heels and unlaced the peach ribbon before slipping into the new shoes. _Perfect... God, how does he know my size? Just when I thought it couldn't get creepier..._

"Lucky girl," Meg commented. "Everything looks good on you."

Sansa swallowed hard. "You looked splendid in your new evening dress the other night."

A half-smile graced Meg's lips and she didn't answer at first. As none of them felt like talking, Sansa began to worry about the meaning of Baelish's gift. _Why now? What for? Does it have something to do with what happened during the last show? He said he liked the last song I sang but he spent his time leering at me when I wore that belly dancer costume... Is this gift a way to coax me before asking for what Edna would call a sexual favor?_

Feeling sick, she stood up as if she wanted to walk with her new shoes and she stopped in front of the cheval mirror, looking at her reflection. _Elegant but completely terrified._

After some time, Meg got on her feet and she swayed her hips to the door, before casually informing her their boss would be back early in the evening. Once more, Sansa couldn't help wonder; did it mean he wanted to talk to her? Did he expect her thanks as soon as he would cross the threshold? And what part did Meg play in all this? Perhaps going downstairs to thank him right after his arrival would be better than staying in her bedroom, if only because the prospect of waiting for his visit without knowing when he would come and what for sent shivers down her spine. At least, going to him gave her the illusion she controlled something.

 _Try to think straight. Baelish won't rape you: he's a greedy man and the profit he thinks he will make the day he sells you is more important for him than the... carnal pleasure he seeks. For now._ Removing her new shoes and putting them back in their pretty box, Sansa repressed a shudder. After a few months spent in Baelish's house, she was aware there were other ways to please men than the one that resulted in pregnancy. What would she do if he demanded her something like that? She couldn't and wouldn't say the words. Suddenly, her fears brought her back to the minutes before Sandor's first visit in the brothel, when she had tried to gather her courage to kill herself. _I'd rather leap into the void than let Baelish touch me._

Two hours later, Baelish's black car pulled over in front of the house and Sansa went downstairs, sick at heart. _Maybe it's a mistake. Maybe he's going to take my thanks as an encouragement._

Her knees like jelly, she walked to his office, shyly knocked at the door and found it still ajar. He told her to come in and she stayed by the half-open door, donning her best smile. Baelish had thrown his briefcase on the green upholstered fainting couch by his desk before removing his coat and his jacket; as soon as he turned on the desk lamp with a green glass shade, she could tell by the relieved expression on his face, that he came back from the Red Mansion after a long day spent in Joffrey's shadow.

Standing straight and observing her across the dimly lit room, he sighed: "Good evening Sansa. What brings you downstairs?"

She only took a step forward but felt so ill-at-ease she almost lost her balance. "I wanted to thank you for the shoes." She paused, as her mouth went dry. "They're perfect," she added.

"It's nothing, really. You deserve what's best. I wonder though why you didn't put them on," he said, looking at her feet, seemingly frustrated to see she wore old black Mary Jane heels. "Did I choose the wrong size?"

"No, not at all. I will just keep them for the next time I am onstage."

There was a smile on his face but his eyes narrowed. He almost glares at me, she thought, panicked. _When he offers me something, he wants to see me wearing it immediately. When he purchased these shoes, he imagined me walking with them, perhaps dancing for him._ Suddenly she felt like some pet whose master had bought a new collar.

"Shut the door and please have a seat," Baelish commanded.

He stared at her as she hesitated then finally offered him: "The shoes are upstairs, I can put them on if you want-"

"That won't be necessary," he cut her off. "Later."

She obeyed him, eyes downcast. Slowly walking around his desk, he sat down by her side. Sansa glanced at him, her chest constricting.

"Do you know why I bought this exquisite pair of shoes you're _not_ wearing?" He sounded reproachful and threatening.

"Because you're generous, obviously."

As her flattering response didn't have any effect on him, she closed her eyes briefly, fearing his anger.

"All this has nothing to do with generosity, I'm afraid. You're going to do me a favor and... hard work deserves a fair reward."

He paused, giving her more time than necessary to imagine what he wanted. She shuddered and her fingers curled into balled fists. _Not that kind of favor._

"Andrei Berdokhovski is going to visit you the day after tomorrow," he informed her. "You'll make him stay longer than usual."

"Why?"

Her head was spinning. A minute ago, she thought he would demand some sexual favor and now he talked about her most faithful customer. _Why Berdokhovski? What is this all about?_

Baelish crossed his legs casually and he began to play with his seal ring. After staring into space for a few seconds, he swiveled his head and locked eyes with her.

"Your dear Russian customer is in business with important people and they... need some time to make sure he's a reliable person."

"What does it mean?"

He snorted. "Basically, it means that your customer's house will be searched while you dance for him. One hour isn't enough, so you'll make him stay thirty more minutes, at the very least."

Speechless, she watched him explaining how she was going to betray a man who had always been good to her. "What if I refuse?" she asked, knowing well he would threaten her.

"I expected that answer. You're Eddard Stark's daughter, after all. A stay in this place already changed you, but I knew you would say no and give your morals as an argument."

He pushed himself from his seat, walked around his desk and retrieved a letter from one of the drawers. Glancing at her, he read:

_"Sansa,_

_After weeks without hearing from you, your letter was a relief. I hope you are in good health, wherever you are. I looked for you and even hired some Pinkerton agent, before a part of the hydroelectric power plant burned down. Please tell me where you are and I'll come right away._

_Your loving brother, Robb Stark."_

Sansa shivered. If Baelish had found Robb's first letter, he also found the other ones. With almost each visit, Berdokhovski brought another one and Sansa kept them hidden under her desk. Half a dozen letters were stored there – hidden, but in vain, she acknowledged it now. _So he knows I intend to leave this place... Did he also find the Luger?_

"How did you find this letter?" she managed to ask, jutting out her chin.

"Someone found this one and the other letters for me. You'd be surprised to know what a girl could do for a new velvet evening dress."

 _Meg. Meg did it._ It explained everything, from the girl's attitude – feigned friendship and nosy looks – to the new dress she was proudly wearing during the last show, but what had she been looking for in Sansa's bedroom, apart from the letters? With unconcealed joy, Baelish leaned over the desk and stared at her.

"So... Not satisfied to post your letters to your brother and to give you his, Berdokhovski offered to save you?" Her bottom lip trembled but she said nothing and fought back tears. "I suspected he wanted to buy more than your virginity, I just wondered when he would talk about it. That's impressive: I didn't think at first you could be so valuable. I'm not sure he'll make an offer after what is going to happen this week. Russian people are sometimes resentful, I was told."

Sansa imagined Berdokhovski's reaction when he would understand she had betrayed him; she saw pain and bitter disappointment in his pale blue eyes. She tried to picture him shouting at her but she soon gave up. _He's a good person. I can't do that to him._

"Oh... Needless to say that your correspondence with your dear Robb is over. I'll burn the letters and I don't think Berdokhovski will ever agree to post more messages for you now. You should be glad I don't intend to mention what you did in front of Joffrey."

"I don't understand," she said, trying to think like Baelish would. "Berdokhovski is ready to make a deal with you. Why would you risk so much money? Why jeopardize what we worked for to get information about him?"

He sighed. "Very good point. At least, I taught you something." Baelish sat down in his armchair and looked at her over steepled fingers. "Don't think I do that gladly, Sansa. Orders. That's the reason."

 _Joffrey? Cersei? What's the link between Berdokhovski and them?_ "What would you have to gain by intervening in the Lannisters' scheme?" she asked.

"You should ask yourself what I would have to lose by not...complying. We both have something to lose in this situation, Sansa: Berdokhovski's trust, as far as you're concerned; money, in my case... But we both know we'll lose much more if we refuse to do what the Lannisters demand." He paused and observed her reaction.

Sansa shook her head. "I refuse to do what you ask me to. I won't betray him."

"Morals, betrayal," Baelish mocked her. "You Starks always refer to these notions when you lack courage to make a decision."

She bit her lip, so not to shout her disgust. Silence stretched in the office and dusk cast longer shadows on his desk and on the varnished parquet floor.

"Did you ask yourself what you would lose if you disobey?" he asked her. "If someone like me agrees to lose money in this deal, because there's no other choice, do you have the slightest idea of what we can do to you because you threw a tantrum and decided you didn't want to be a part of it?"

She shuddered. "I told you I don't want to betray a man who's always been good to me. You won't buy me by offering me expensive shoes nor by threatening me."

Her remark forced a smile out of him; twisted and sarcastic, it frightened Sansa much more than the shouting she expected from him. Sitting in his large armchair, Baelish seemed in control: she could tell he was enjoying the situation – something she had already noticed the afternoon he had taken her to the nice parts of town to buy dresses and jewels. _He likes it when I resist him._

"Go upstairs," he finally commanded. "Take your coat and your hat; we're going for a drive. And put your new shoes on: I want to see them on you."

She reluctantly walked to the door and headed to her room; it was already dark and she had to turn the light before going to the large closet. Once she had obeyed his orders, she caught a glimpse of her reflexion in the mirror and she gasped: she was shaking like a leaf.

Eager not to infuriate him even more, she quickly left her room and joined him in the entrance hall where he mockingly offered her his arm. They exited Baelish's house and they took the black limousine; she heard him murmuring an address to the driver but it didn't sound familiar and her first reaction was to thank God for not going to the Red Mansion again.

Baelish let her sit down opposite to him inside the passenger compartment; she settled herself against one of the car doors, seeking derisory comfort in the softness of the back seat. Before the car had turned at the end of the street, she noticed how Baelish leered at her, his eyes moving from her high-heeled shoes to the hem of her coat, going up and down again and again. Nauseated, she turned her head and looked through the window, in a desperate attempt to ignore what awaited her. She pressed her knees together.

Sansa soon understood they were leaving Manhattan – _but why?_ – and as they left behind the more familiar streets to arrive in areas of the city she didn't know, her anxiety became tangible. They crossed Brooklyn Bridge and Sansa felt like she was going to cry. _Is he going to kill me and to get rid of my corpse in some garbage dump?_ Thanks to Myranda Royce, she had heard stories about how crime syndicate hid their enemies' remains.

There were less street lamps outside the car and it seemed to Sansa that they drove at breakneck speed. _But where are we going to?_ Though she feared for her life, she refused to ask any questions and to let Baelish know how scared she was. _Your allegations aren't backed by any evidence, Sansa Stark, she chided herself. They're ludicrous. Baelish won't kill you: he acknowledged minutes ago you were valuable._

They finally left the underprivileged borough of the Queens to reach an area just beyond the city limits. It wasn't the countryside anymore, but people wouldn't call it city either. Someday, this area would belong to New York but for now, it was just a sad place that looked like wasteland with some petty buildings.

The limousine slowed down and pulled over in front of the biggest one; Sansa noticed a red lantern swaying on the façade, right above the entrance door. She couldn't miss that detail because the oriental lantern, with its globe-like shape and its fake Chinese characters, contrasted with the long, nondescript building.

She shifted nervously when Baelish's voice broke the heavy silence: "Have you ever heard of the Red Light District?"

He sounded curious, rather than threatening: far from soothing her nerves, this sudden change made her shake her head frantically. "I've never heard about that place."

"It's not a place, Sansa. Just an expression we use to refer to certain... areas. A convenient understatement, in my opinion."

She had always disliked charades and the riddle he offered her only increased her apprehension.

"I guess it's better if you discover what it is by yourself," he told her, as the driver opened the car door.

Sansa had no other choice but to follow him outside, where she saw several cars parked by the long building. Though she didn't know anything about cars, she could tell by their outward appearance they all belonged to middle-class men and even workers. The headlights of the limousine briskly lit a dusty Model T that pulled over and two men got out of the car; on the evidence of their large hands, ragged caps and worn shoes, they probably worked in a construction site.

They looked hard at Sansa then they headed to the entrance door: Baelish followed them and motioned the girl inside. Shaking, she crossed the threshold. As soon as she inhaled the fouled air of the building, she had to take hold of the doorknob not to fall. It wasn't stinking like the pigsties she had once visited, back in Saint-Paul, nor like the wet market in New York. The smell was more insidious; it seeped into her nostrils and made her cringe until a feeling of unease crept over her. Before she could adjust her eyes to the dim light, the smell told her what she was going to find inside the long building. _Men, women. Enslavement and degradation._

The two men they had followed strode the long hallway that divided the building. On both sides, Sansa saw door frames that possibly led to small rooms – _cells,_ she told herself. There were no bars, though, only curtains, some dirty, some ragged.

For a second, she thought of escaping and she imagined herself running for her life. Her expensive shoes reminded her she couldn't; the leather already dug into her flesh, probably leaving red marks on her ankles and her toes. And Baelish was next to her, the driver was outside: on the off-chance that she escaped them, the men who visited this place would find her and that sole option turned her blood to ice.

Both shocked and terrified, she didn't realize at first Baelish was staring at her; she must have stayed agape and silent for a while, because he finally cleared his throat to get her attention. A woman in her forties stood by his side and, by the looks Baelish and the woman exchanged, Sansa understood she was the madam who ruled the place in Baelish's absence. _This has to be one of his brothels._

"Follow me," he commanded.

Her legs moved of their own accord as she walked behind him in the long hallway. The noises she now heard – raucous laughter, moans, wheezy breathing – made her shudder. _What if he decides to leave me in this place, because I refused to trap Berdokhovski?_

Prying eyes observed Baelish and Sansa as they progressed in the corridor; two women who worked there moved the curtains aside to watch them before the madam called them to order. A lanky customer left one of the rooms – _the cells,_ Sansa told herself, _these are cells, not rooms_ – and his sudden appearance made her jump. He did a double-take when she moved past him and he whistled at her softly, before noticing she wasn't alone – not that Baelish could intimidate him, but the man sensed he owned the place and he therefore deemed appropriate to keep a low profile.

Baelish's glances informed her he was looking for something – something that couldn't be good, Sansa knew it for sure – and his leisurely pace revealed he was ready to stop, if only he found what he wanted to show her. He cocked his head to the side as they arrived in front of one of the last rooms, which ragged curtain didn't hide what was going on inside. Sansa immediately averted her eyes but the creaking of the box spring left little room for imagination.

Ignoring the customer's protestations, Baelish pushed aside the curtain and casually leaned against the door frame.

"What's wrong with you? What the hell-" a red-faced man bellowed.

Lying on top of a girl, his pants on his knees, he propped himself on his elbows and glanced around his shoulder. All Sansa could see of the girl were her pale limbs. _As if she wasn't there._ The man's expression changed as soon as he noticed Baelish's three-piece suit and his shiny shoes.

"What do you want?" the man cautiously asked, while putting his pants back.

Though she was behind him, Sansa didn't miss Baelish's smirk. "My friend here would like to have a look," he explained, shoving Sansa in front of him. "I'm sure you don't mind, especially if I tell Mrs. Henshaw to give you your money back. Tell me how does that sound."

Somehow relaxing, the man observed Sansa for a while, taking in her ashamed expression, her panic, until a cruel smile pulled the corner of his lips. "Alright," he said. "I don't give a shit if you're watching me."

Before he collapsed on the girl again, Sansa caught a glimpse at her, but she wished she hadn't: she couldn't tell how old she was and straw-like hair partly hid her face. It didn't conceal her dead eyes though and Sansa instinctively shook her head in denial. _Why does she look like she doesn't feel anything? Does she even see me?_

"Watch," Baelish whispered in her ear. "Watch and learn. That's why you're here."

The red-faced man swiveled his head and blinked at Sansa mockingly; he claimed he didn't care being watched, but his attitude belied his words. Her eyes fell to the floor as he grunted.

"Watch," Baelish repeated, grasping her shoulder. "The more you resist, the more it will last. For this girl and for you."

"Enough," she begged. "Please."

Her voice broke but he ignored her plea; as the man went on, puffing and panting, Sansa bit her lip hard and tried to focus on the metal bed frame, so that Baelish wouldn't notice she wasn't looking at the man and the woman on the bed. Silently, she wiped away a tear. What was happening in this small room was so violent, so degrading it made her feel sick. _These noises will haunt me for years._

"Please stop," she insisted, louder this time.

Baelish's grip on her shoulder loosened and he positioned himself in front of her. "Will you obey, now?" he asked her coldly.

Sansa's eyes widened in shock and she tried to gather her thoughts. What had happened since they had left Baelish's house was so terrifying she had momentarily forgotten why she was there and what he demanded from her. Behind him, the man cursed and growled as he found his release.

"Berdokhovski," Baelish spat. "Your damn Russian customer. Will you obey and make him stay longer next time he visits you?"

She didn't answer at first and she looked around, as if looking for an escape, but there was none. "Don't ask me to betray him. Please."

"Very well." Baelish turned around and he pointed at the red-faced man. "Out. Both of you."

If the man didn't need to be told twice, the girl hardly moved on the bed. Staring into space, she covered her pale thighs and rolled on one side slowly, ignoring Baelish's visible annoyance.

"Don't you see she can barely walk?" Sansa asked him.

He glared at her, then walked to the bed and snatched the girl's wrist before throwing her into the hallway, despite Sansa's cries. Finally he drew the curtain. Shaking, Sansa stepped aside until she was standing in the middle of the room. The floor was sticky beneath her feet.

"At last," he said, cruelly smiling at her. "Look around, Sansa. A chair, a bed. Cheap whores don't need much. You're lucky, though, with this window. What do you think about all this?" As she wordlessly cried, he went on. "You know, I owned this place for years and though the prices are very low, it's much more profitable than the house you live in so far. Do you know why? Your companions in Manhattan complain when they had more than two customers during a night, but in this place, a girl can have up to twenty-five customers a day. They're hard workers, like the men who visit them. They can't live like that for a very long time. Most of them last a few months. I once met a girl who stayed here a whole year but she ended up in a mental institution."

She sobbed. _What does he intend to do? Is he going to leave me here because I refused to obey?_ Baelish stepped forward, closing the space between them. _Or does he want to..._

"Don't touch me," she managed to say. "Don't-"

He snorted, seemingly enjoying her confusion and her fright, then he extended his arm and brushed her cheek. She moved backwards, ruing her new shoes that made every step a torture. _Think straight. He's playing on your nerves, obviously. He wouldn't leave you here; there would be no point at all in locking you in a place like this._ She steeled herself and wipe away her tears.

"You said I was valuable. You won't leave me here."

Baelish nodded. "Now you're on the trolley! I wondered when you would finally understand. However I didn't bring you in this brothel because I intended to leave you here. You see this room, Sansa? In a fortnight, it could be Evie's room. As soon as the baby is born, I could send her here if you refuse to comply. How long do you think she'll last? One month? Two? To be honest, I don't think she could stay here more than a week before being completely broken. She's always been the weak one."

Speechless, she couldn't take her eyes off of his wry smile. _He doesn't mean it, it can't be true._

"Tell me something about Evie. Why do you want to save her, exactly? She's already a wreck," he said, as if he read her thoughts and realized she didn't believe his threats. "The only reason why she didn't end up in this brothel is the baby she bears."

"So you'll do it all the same," she commented. "After the baby is born, you'll send her here."

Baelish cupped her chin and locked eyes with her. "It depends."

He didn't need to say more. _So here's the dilemma: I betray Berdokhovski and Evie is safe – for now. But Baelish will ask me for another favor soon, and it will have nothing to do with my customers. He'll make me choose between Evie's safety and my own. If I don't escape the brothel soon, I'll try to help her as long as I could, but someday I'll give out. Someday Baelish will ask a favor I'll refuse. He'll make me betray her... and that's what he wants: he wants to break my spirit and making me betray the persons I care for is the best method he found to reach his goal._

The game he forced her to play was a sick one and she knew she had to give an answer quickly.

She looked around, took in the crumby room and sighed deeply. "I'll make Berdokhovski stay longer."

* * *

When he had told her Sandor would crawl back to her, Tyrion was right. Although he hid himself behind his persona – taunting her every time he could, refusing to talk about the last show, making sure she had seen the shoulder holster and the gun he carried, when taking off his coat and tossing it to the bathroom floor – something had changed in him. The sole fact he had come back proved he wanted to apologize or so she told herself. _He'll crack,_ she mused. _We have the whole night ahead of us. He'll crack before dawn._

She had danced for a customer that night: one of those men who attended the show, loved the way she danced then called the brothel after a day or two. As soon as they had watched her dancing and singing for an hour, that kind of men realized they expected more than staring at a girl when they pushed the door of Baelish's house. _His insistent look at the four-poster bed sickened me._

That customer – a well-known surgeon, according to Peitho – wouldn't come back, at least as long as she was only a dancer and a singer. Sandor didn't reason about it like she did, but he was aware she had had a customer and that notion drove him mad. He had asked her several times if the man had hurt her; despite her attempts to reassure him, he wouldn't believe she was alright. _Perhaps because I'm not alright._

Baelish had brought her back to his house only minutes before her appointment with the surgeon, and she was still shaking like a leaf when Edna had helped her change clothes and apply make-up. The images of the brothel outside New York churned in her head. _I can still hear the noises. I can still smell that awful odor._

"What happened?" His rasping voice took her unawares.

They still were in the bathroom, facing each other, and it seemed that they wouldn't open the bedroom door before disentangling rights and wrongs.

"Well... I..." she mumbled, shaking her head as if she wanted to get rid of the terrifying visions that haunted her.

"You said your customer didn't hurt you, that this prick stayed in the fucking armchair, watching you while you danced... Behaving... If he didn't hurt you, who did it, girl?"

 _The Hound,_ she thought, ignoring his question. _Right now, I'm not looking at Sandor but at the Hound... This is the Hound who scared me when I lived in the Red Mansion: rude, stubborn, hating lies and liars. I feared this man and now I can't live without him._ She couldn't either lie to him.

"No one hurt me physically. Baelish threatened me, that's all."

Her confession wasn't enough and she knew it: he cupped her chin and forced her to look at him. Under his unsettling gaze, Sansa shuddered; though Baelish had made the same gesture only hours ago, it had a completely different meaning. The steely gray eyes that bore into hers belonged to a man who went mad when he couldn't protect her the way he wanted. Or when she lied.

"That's all?" he repeated with a smirk.

Sansa burst into tears and had no other choice but to spit it out. The new shoes, Baelish's demand, her refusal, the ride outside of New York, the other brothel: she told him what had happened during the late afternoon and the evening, holding back from mentioning the letters Meg had found in her bedroom and how she had had news from her brother. _If he learns about Berdokhovski's offer now, I'll lose him for good. He'll never forgive me._

As she wept and explained him what she had been through, his expression softened. Slowly, he brushed her cheek and he bent forward until he was eye level with her. He still hesitated and wondered if he could take her in his arms, on the evidence of his nervousness. Knowing he was as unsure as she was, somewhat comforted Sansa and she leaned into his touch when he brushed her jawline again.

He didn't say anything, but he was on his guard, remembering how she had rejected him. _He felt like I rebuffed him, but he misunderstood me,_ she told herself, crumpling her handkerchief. Eager to settle their argument, she tentatively pressed herself against him. As she was wearing a satin dressing-gown, her sleeve fell down to her elbow as she reached for his neck, leaving her forearm bare. He cocked his head to the side, contemplating her pale skin.

"He made me watch them," she explained. "This... couple. It was terrifying. Violent. I'm not sure I can ever forget it."

Sandor cursed in a low tone and Sansa hoped Lothor Brune and his other body guards were good enough at protecting Baelish or else Addam Marbrand would soon have another case to solve. As she sobbed, head buried in his chest, she felt him grabbing her upper arms, not ungently, and pushing her away. Surprised and worried, she craned her neck to lock eyes with him.

"Feeling a man's cock is the last thing you need right now," he rasped.

She hiccupped, confounded by his words and slightly ashamed. _What am I supposed to understand? That he wants to protect me from his own desire? That he's disgusted by what I just told him, and perhaps by me?_ As usual when they met, she was at a loss and his serious, unflinching gaze didn't help. The space between them – only a foot of distance in the bathroom – looked impassable.

"What are you going to do to make this bastard stay?" he asked her after she confessed she had agreed on making Berdokhovski late.

His animosity towards Berdokhovski didn't really surprise her; he focused on her instead of thinking about the consequences for the Russian businessman, wondering how his little bird would manage to keep another man by her side and fearing the worst. By the way he avoided her gaze and clenched his jaw, she could tell he pictured them alone in her room, flirting. _In his experience, there's only one way a girl can make a man stay in her company, forgetting about time and about his duties._

"I don't intend to cheat on you."

Sansa was well-aware her answer wasn't satisfactory, yet she found nothing else to say and ran her fingers through his hair as he stubbornly refused to hold her tight.

"I didn't fuck you, so nobody would call that cheating," he growled. "Even if I did, we're not married. We're just... I don't know what we are." Defeated, she averted her eyes. He never lacked imagination to belittle their relationship and to hurt her. "You're a grown woman, you fuck whoever you want," he added, giving in to his taste for provocation.

Her older self would have run away or slapped him in the face, but she knew better than that now. _Tyrion would say he spent the last days licking his wounds. Said wounds aren't healed yet, obviously._

"I'll never let him do what you did to me," she said, her cheeks aflame. "I know you. I know you despise oaths and declarations of love. I'm not even sure you believe in faithfulness. It doesn't matter, because it's much simpler. Berdokhovski will never make me feel the way I feel when you're here. My... my body just doesn't react the same way."

It was unexpected, even for herself: she had never thought she could broach the subject of desire so freely. _God, I sounded almost clinical._ She looked up at him and sought any trace of forgiveness in his eyes. He had swiveled his head to look at the corner where the bathtub was located as if gazing at her at that moment was unbearable.

"Why do you refuse to believe my feelings for you?" she asked, suddenly furious and ruing his outward indifference.

Sandor turned to face her and, in the raw light the electric lamp provided, she noticed how his gray eyes shone with fever. His features tense, he contemplated her as if they met for the first time and she felt like she finally saw the man he was, with the burden of his memories, with his doubts and the shattered hopes that had fueled his anger. _You always question my love for you because it wasn't supposed to happen this way. The day we met, you thought I would despise you, hate you perhaps. You thought I would fall for someone more suitable. Like Joffrey._

"If I had chosen someone else, this someone would be visiting me tonight, but here you are, hidden in my bathroom." He swallowed hard at that. "I need you here, with me, instead of chasing stupid men who annoy me," she told him all of a sudden. "You can't prevent them from ogling at me, but you can take me away from this place. Why..." Her voice broke. "Why am I still here? Why don't you find a way so that we both escape?"

A heavy silence wrapped the room as he clenched his fists, wordless. Jabbing a finger at him accusingly, she went on: "You're the Hound. You've fought in Europe, you claim you can kill a man without a second thought, you don't care about Marbrand's investigations, you promise to save me... yet I'm still here, locked in this awful place! Why? Is there a good reason or is it because you like things the way they are? Visiting me, sneaking in when you decide you want to see me... Torturing yourself when you think of these men who watch me while I dance, because you convinced yourself you can't have me... "

In the blink of an eye, she imagined how he could answer to her tirade – hitting her, running away, laughing at her. None of these prospects prevented her from voicing out loud the fear that had wormed itself in her mind lately.

"Never committing yourself."

Angrily, she jabbed at him again, stepping forward and soon that gesture turned into a tap against Sandor's chest. Surprised by his lack of reaction, she struck him again, until her fists hammered against his ribcage. Sandor then grabbed her upper arms; under his touch, she yielded and burst into tears. As soon as he wrapped solid arms around her, preventing her from flailing, she gave in and sobbed.

 _He's not my savior,_ she mused, cradled by Sandor. _He's just a man, sometimes making bad choices and perhaps not even sure he can keep the promise he made to me. But he knows how to comfort me and that's all I need._ Silently, he led her out of the bathroom and towards the bed, dabbed her wet cheeks with his handkerchief, helped her take off her dressing-gown and slip under the covers, before removing his waistcoat and shirt. Sandor dropped them on the console table, to hide the tiny hole in the wall, then he blocked the door with a chair and he finally laid down by her side.

They talked, even after he turned off the light. He confessed he had hit the old officer only once because he felt as if she would never forget him another murder, that what she had said hours before Sandor's confrontation with McMillan had saved the man's life. Between nervous silences, he told her the situation drove him mad. He wished Tyrion would eventually agree on leaving before Sansa's birthday and at the same time he feared what his brother would do the day he would learn their flight.

Lying on her side and her back to him, Sansa listened; she now admitted she had been somewhat unfair with Sandor. At some point, she reached behind her and took his hand in hers.

"Do you know what I was thinking about, the first day you visited me here?" she asked him, squeezing his fingers. "Right before your arrival? I was on my balcony, thinking I'd rather leap into the void than spend any more time in this place. I would have jumped at dawn had you not come. But you came, you offered me your help and I decided to wait. So many things happened after your first visit, I almost forgot I once wanted to kill myself."

Under her touch, his fingers had tensed and she imagined he was taken aback by her revelation. "Today I thought of leaping into the void again. Because of Baelish. Because I felt trapped."

Maybe she needed to tell him her most private thoughts to explain why she had lost her temper a while ago and why she had almost shouted at him. Letting go of her hand, he took her in his arms. His warmth and his smell overwhelmed her senses.

"Don't do that," he rasped in her ear. "Don't fucking jump, don't even think about it, Little Bird. There's no point in living if you're gone."

"As long as you're here, willing to protect me, I won't. You're my only hope."

Tears and tension had taken their toll on her; she fell asleep, Sandor's arm around her waist.

* * *

His body was curved in behind hers, when she awoke. Something tickled her bare shoulder and she soon realized it was him, tracing small circles on her skin. Sansa shifted and he stopped immediately, probably afraid to disturb her sleep. On the evidence of the tiredness she still felt, she guessed it was very early and he was just waiting for the moment when he would have no other choice but to leave, eyes wide open in the dark.

As she didn't move at all, listening to his even breathing and relishing his warmth, he presumed she was asleep and resumed his activity, the pad of his thumb ghosting along her bare skin. _What is he doing?_ she asked herself. _Why does he stop when he thinks I'm awake? Does he feel uncomfortable?_ There was nothing to be ashamed of though and she actually liked the way he brushed her skin.

 _Is he making sure I'm for real?_ Sandor's uncertainty often hurt her but at that moment, she only felt for him, because he acted as if he needed a proof she was really lying in bed with him. All of a sudden, she rolled on the other side to face him and she snuggled up his chest.

"I'm awake," she stated, in case he didn't notice yet.

"It's almost time," he answered.

_I guess the most important word is 'almost'._

Time always contracted when they where together. The tiniest events, the most insignificant details acquired another dimension in his presence and during daytime, she played it all back in her mind, cherishing minuscule moments of happiness. _As long as he's not stepped over the window ledge to leave, he's still with me._ She clung to that childish notion and breathed in his smell.

"'Mind if I turn the light on?" he asked in an undertone.

She didn't protest but she curled up and her eyes squeezed shut when the bedside lamp cast orange hues on the wall and on the bed. _He wants to see me_. Just like he had brushed her skin minutes earlier, he reveled in her sight.

Lying on his side, against the light, he was impressive. The rippling muscles of his chest distracted her for a moment until he ducked his head and claimed her mouth. Their last kiss went back to the morning after Sandor's birthday and she felt like it was ages ago. She soon lost her breath and he flipped her so that she was on her back, then he leaned over her, panting.

 _Am I ready for that?_ What she had seen in the other brothel outside of New York still haunted her. _The blond girl's dead eyes, as she laid down on the bed, emotionless..._ Hours before, when he had decided it was time to go to bed, they had talked and stayed in each other's arms instead of kissing, for he probably sensed she needed comfort rather than feverish caresses. Without warning, she stiffened and he pulled away at once.

"I'm sorry," she said, bringing her balled fist to her face, ready to wipe away the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright," he murmured.

Exhaling, he lowered himself and rested his head on her heaving chest. "If I can hold you like this, it's just fine," he rasped, eager to reassure her.

Sansa tried to calm down, calling herself stupid and ruing her fears. _He wants me and I can't at least relax under his touch. He'll be gone in a few minutes and I'm wasting time. And he needs me. I'm feeling bad, but what about him? These are exactly the kind of things that drive him mad._ She closed her eyes and she let out a deep breath she didn't know she had been holding. _What I saw in the other brothel has nothing to do with our relationship. Baelish didn't break me. I'm not broken,_ she decided.

Pillowed by her chest, Sandor's head moved rhythmically, at the pace of her breathing. _I'm not broken._ She reached for the neckline of her satin nightgown and she began to button it down.

Sandor caught her wrist to stop her. "Don't. You're not forced to-"

"But I want to."

Sansa's eyes challenged him and he shifted, still reluctant as she got rid of the last buttons. In the end, his steely gaze followed her movements while she sat up to move aside the shiny fabric. Once naked to the waist, she lay down again and held his stare. In his gray eyes, she saw his lust and – for a fleeting moment – the reflexion of her own confidence. Strands of his hair tickled the bare skin of her bust as he lowered himself on her, causing her to arch her back in anticipation. With a contented growl, he gently pinched her nipple before sucking it.

_I'm not broken._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a million to all the people who left kudos and comments: it means a lot to me!


	18. Pommes d'Amour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you feel tired tonight, Little Bird?”  
> What did it mean? What was the underlying meaning, assuming there was one?  
> “Do you feel tired?” he repeated.  
> Her voice was only a whisper. “I don't know. I don't think I am.”  
> “Fine. I'm going to take you out tonight.”  
> As her eyes widened like saucers, Sandor went on: “You deserve it, girl. At least one night of freedom. Even if you're forced to go back to your gilded cage come the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit where credit is due! I changed the title after my beta suggested it could be 'Pommes d'Amour'.
> 
> As usual with this story, this chapter made me a bit nervous, so your comments are welcome.
> 
> Warning for sexual content and mildly dubious consent.

Clinging to Sandor's promise – he had told her before leaving he would sneak in and pay her a visit that night – Sansa had spent the day glancing at the clock, mentally counting how many hours remained before Berdokhovski's arrival and before her secret meeting with her lover. _We're lovers now,_ she mused, eyes downcast, even if no one was here to look at her. _We have a routine and when we are together we both expect more than kissing and holding hands._ _God, I shouldn't talk like this._

The mere evocation of his name made her mind wander to places it hadn't been before; even if Sandor's ministrations had focused on her breasts, even if he had restrained himself from doing what she was sure he craved for, it didn't mean it was enough to calm down the fever she felt. Sansa blushed and she scrutinized her headband, all the ribbons and chains were tangled up. _Like my relationships with Sandor, Evie and Berdokhovski,_ she thought bitterly, sitting down at her dressing table. Though her shaky hands made it harder, she managed to loosen the knot , then disentangle the copper-colored chains that matched her hair. _Hope it's a good omen for tonight._

Another glance at the clock made the speed of her pulse increase: it was almost time and Berdokhovski was polite enough to never keep her waiting. Her knees like jelly, she stood up and walked to the cheval mirror to check her outfit and to compose herself.

That night, she wore the pink dress, the skirt reminded her of a corolla. The light shade of pink favored her complexion and under the electric light, she looked like a doll, with her ivory skin and big blue eyes. _The epitome of innocence. Ready to stab a good man in his back._

She spun on her heels when hearing voices downstairs and whatever inflections she made out confirmed Peitho was talking with Berdokhovski. In English, then in Russian, as usual. Sansa wrung her hands, trying to breathe slowly. _Remember why you're doing this: Evie must stay here after the baby's birth, until she escapes._ As her plan to make her friend leave Baelish's brothel involved Berdokhovski, who she was about to betray, Sansa had no other choice but to request someone else's help and she had directed her attention to Lothor Brune. When she looked back on their exchange, a few hours before, Sansa was still puzzled and she wondered if she could count on him or not.

* * *

Earlier that day, she had found Lothor Brune by the entrance door, smoking a cigarillo, the acrid smell made her wrinkle her nose.

_Who smokes cigarillos nowadays?_ she wondered, considering the tall man with a square jaw and squashed nose. His eyes narrowed under his mop of grey hair when he noticed she had come to talk to him, instead of going on her way like she usually did.

“You can't leave, Miss,” he warned her, repeating the orders he took from Baelish.

He stood in a corner, leaning back against the wall, his tall frame partly hiding a smear on the wall hangings – another remain of the Sand Snakes' visit. Lothor Brune bent to stub out his cigarillo in the ashtray then he raised to his full height, weighing Sansa up.

“I know,” she countered as calmly as she could. “I wanted to talk to you. Is there a place where we can discuss... private matters?”

He snorted, then pointed at her and she could see his finger stained by tobacco leaves: “If it's some trick...”

“Do I look like a girl who plays tricks?”

He puckered up, still wary. Sansa tilted her head encouragingly and, as he didn't answer, she took a step forward to whisper in his ear: “It's about Evie.”

Lothor Brune shrugged.

_Alright. Do as you please. Pretend you don't care. I know the likes of you._ After all, a man rather similar to him – though more impressive – had spent the night in her bed. Perhaps she just had to strike a chord.

“You know her,” she added, quietly. “She's the girl you saved.”

Despite his outward detachment, she knew she had won. _Everybody wants to be someone's hero._

Avoiding her insistent gaze, Lothor Brune licked his lips and squared his shoulders.

_He's acting as if she was here,_ she told herself, amazed. _I mention her and suddenly he readies himself for some courtship ritual._

“Alright,” he spat, hiding whatever he had in mind behind feigned anger. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk. Far from eavesdroppers.”

At that, she swiveled her head and gazed at the entrance hall, hoping nobody heard them.

Lothor sighed and motioned her to a door under the large staircase. Covered by the same wall hanging that adorned the entrance hall, it was barely visible for visitors; as far as she remembered, Sansa had never been there and she didn't know what she would find behind the door. He retrieved a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked the door then turned on the light. There was a flight of stairs leading to the lower level and Sansa understood it was the basement. She followed him and closed the door behind her. Sansa stopped at the bottom of the stairs and she looked around.

“The wine cellar,” Lothor explained, gesturing at the shelves where all kinds of bottles waited to be served. “I'm sure you've never been here. Only Mr Baelish and I have the key and I keep a close eye on the bartenders during the show. It's always a bloody mess when we're out of booze and we need a delivery-”

“We're not here to talk about running the house,” she said a bit stiffly. “It's about Evie.”

“What's the matter, with Evie?”

_Interesting how he tries to sound detached._

“Mr Baelish wants to get rid of her as soon as the baby is born,” Sansa informed Lothor. “He'll sell the baby to some rich family and he'll send her to... some cheap brothel he owns. As you work for Mr Baelish, I'm sure you know this place. It's a forty-minute ride, at the edge of the town.”

Lothor still wore his mask of stolidity while listening to her. The air was cooler in the cellar and she suddenly felt the urge to hug herself.

“What do you intend to do?” she asked. “Will you let her go without lifting your little finger?”

Throwing up his large hands, he began to lose his temper. “What do you want me to do? Talking with you about another girl's escape could get me fired!”

Undeterred, she held his furious gaze.

“Oh, I'm sorry for you,” she snapped. “Talking about another girl's escape would not get me fired. I would get a promotion, actually. The kind of promotion where I'm sold at auction overnight to the highest bidder. I'm taking risks as well, in case you were wondering.”

Her answer left him dumbfounded and she observed his furrowed brow, waiting for his reaction. Walking to the nearest shelf and stopping by it, he ran his hand down his face with a frustrated sigh before facing her again.

“Why would I help her in the first place? And why in hell would I listen to the hare-brained ideas pouring out of the mouth of a whimsical girl?”

Sansa slowly crossed the cellar and planted herself in front of him.

“You already know the answer, why are you asking?” she retorted. “You thought I wouldn't notice it?”

He glared at her and she understood she had gone too far; she lifted her hands in silent acquiescence and she took a step backwards.

“You want to think about it? Fine,” she told him. “But don't play for time. Evie doesn't have time.”

She headed to the staircase, but glanced over her shoulder before going upstairs; she then took in his confusion.

“By the way,” she added on an impulse, “I'm not whimsical.”

* * *

_The dice are cast,_ she thought, suddenly aware of the footsteps coming closer. _I had to choose between Evie and Berdokhovski. I chose her. I chose the weak. Hope I won't regret it for the rest of my life._

Peitho's silvery laughter almost covered the knock on her door; Sansa's legs moved of their own accord and she opened to the fair-haired man who beamed at her. Behind him, she barely noticed Peitho and another man she recognized as one of Berdokhovski's employees.

Back in Saint-Paul, Jeyne Poole had told her once how lucky she was because Sansa's good looks always made people smile at her. Sulky and somewhat jealous, her friend had confessed she envied her for that, for always being the one people smiled at, while Jeyne compared herself to the Ugly Duckling. Ill-at-ease, Sansa had tried to explain her the Ugly Duckling turned into a graceful swan at the end of Andersen's tale, which made the comparison much more positive than Jeyne thought, but the girl had rolled her eyes and let out an indignant sigh.

Deep inside her, Sansa knew Jeyne was right: people were usually kinder with her because she was pretty. She had grown used to their grins and to their looks drenched in admiration, but the smile on her Berdokhovski's lips – so serene, so trusting – was something entirely new.

By now, she recognized the lustful, bawdy smile of her customers when she saw it: they smiled at themselves, mentally undressing her while she danced. She was accustomed to Sandor's mocking half-smile, so full of self-deprecation, as well, but that expression, relieved to finally see her after a few days' absence, would haunt her for a long time.

_And those pale blue eyes..._ They shone with confidence, as if their owner had found in her his safe haven. _I'm going to take advantage of him. The Lannisters are about to destroy this man and I'll let them do without interfering._

Face to face, they didn't talk and he mistook her ashamed silence for nervousness.

“Well... I'm going to leave you alone. Petyr is already waiting for me downstairs,” Peitho informed them. “Enjoy your time with our sweet Sansa, Andrei.”

_Does she know?_ Sansa wondered. Did Baelish tell her about the Lannisters' plan to search Berdokhovski's mansion or did he keep it secret, in case she talked to him? Peitho was so unpredictable she never knew where her loyalty lied. Before Sansa could decide whether the madam took part in the plot against Berdokhovski or not, she walked away, leaving behind her that typical smell of oakmoss and bergamot.

The girl suddenly panicked and wished Peitho would stay with her; her mouth fell open as she watched the tall blonde heading to the staircase then disappearing. Sansa restrained herself from calling Peitho, remembering who was looking at her and she focused on him instead.

The man she was about to betray stood in front of her, surprised and slightly amused by her confusion. He tilted his head and as he couldn't get any satisfactory reaction from Sansa, he turned around and gestured at his employee. The young man stepped forward, carrying a large bunch of red roses Berdokhovski took from his hands, sending his employee away with a curt nod.

When he turned to Sansa again, the sight of carmine red roses that would fill her bedroom with fragrance for days, distracted her from her worries and she genuinely smiled. _Always knowing how to please me. Always choosing his gifts with taste._ Her fleeting joy disappeared when she realized Sandor would see the roses too. He didn't need to master the language of flowers to know what red roses meant and his lack of self-confidence concerning their relationship had been so blatant lately she feared another fit of temper.

Berdokhovski handed her the flowers protected by layers of scrunched wrapping tissue and she immediately breathed in their scent. Her mother's perfume smelled of roses and she indulged herself a short while in oblivion before telling him to come in, a grateful yet embarrassed smile on her lips. _Why is it so difficult?_ She found a vase for the flowers and she took her time to arrange them while he looked at her.

“Is something wrong?” he asked after a few heartbeats. “You were more talkative, last time.”

Berdokhovski came closer and he stayed behind her as she pretended to figure out where the roses would look better.

“I'm sorry,” she apologized, letting out a sigh. “I... feel blue tonight. I think I needed some company. Thank God, you're here.”

Although he was in his fifties and had been around, he seemed surprised and moved by her response. Earlier that day, as she wondered how she would make him stay longer than usual, she had decided her best chance was to move him to pity by confessing she was a bit sad. What could lead him to draw out his visit? Sansa had reflected on this topic for hours; now that she thought back on her interrogation, she felt ashamed. People had called her lots of things lately, but never had they accused her of being manipulative.

She tried to calm down by telling herself it would be even worse if she tried to seduce him: that notion was cold comfort.

“What makes you sad, my sweet sister?”

As far as she knew, he ignored that she sometimes called him “Sweet Sister” to mock the strange way he addressed her.

Weeks ago, when she felt angry at everyone, she had decided to broach the subject with Peitho. _'As the man clearly said he was interested in me, I can't help wondering... What does this nickname reveal concerning his relationship with his sister?'_ she wanted to ask the madam out of provocation. Eager not to irritate Berdokhovski's former lover and vaguely anxious that Peitho could tell him how she made fun of him, Sansa had never had the guts to speak her mind though, and she now found her joke ridiculous. Sighing, she crumpled the useless wrapping tissue in her hands; the rustling gave her more time to weigh her words. A ghost of a smile graced her lips.

“I was thinking about my parents,” she explained.

“Do you want to write to your brother?”

She froze. Baelish had been adamant: she had to stop her secret correspondence with Robb. If she told Berdokhovski Baelish had found the letters, he wouldn't understand why the owner of the brothel didn't punish her. _Or he'll understand Baelish uses these letters to blackmail me and he'll have doubts..._

“I'm not sure it's as safe as you think it is,” she answered. “Mr Baelish sometimes searches the girls' rooms, I've been told. If he discovers Robb's letters... Besides, Robb will be safer if I stop writing to him. He knows I'm safe, so...”

“You're not safe,” he protested, closing the distance between them.

Despite the heady perfume coming from the bunch of roses, she could smell his Cologne and see the thin lines at the corners of his eyes. For some reason, the sight of gray hair on his temple moved her, as if that detail helped her realize how vulnerable he was, despite his appearance. _Among all the men who came here and watched me dance, why do I have to betray the only one who cares for me?_

“I should probably turn on the phonograph before someone wonders why I didn't begin to dance,” she told him, ill-at-ease.

His shoulders sunk while she hurried to the phonograph and picked a record.

Berdokhovski always paid attention to the slightest movement she made when he visited her; that night he seemed to drink in her sight. Even though Peitho insisted on the necessity to lock eyes with her customers when she was alone with them, his stare sometimes unsettled Sansa and she couldn't hold it. More than once, her eyes darted away from him and she looked at the wall hangings, at the golden frame with a print of Botticelli's Judith, or at the bed's column.

Sitting in the oversized armchair, his elbow rooted to the armrest and his chin resting in his hand, Berdokhovski seemed to lean on one side. At some point he couldn't help staring at her long legs; the realization made Sansa uncomfortable because it was the first time she could tell he leered at her. What it because of the dance she performed, because her movements drew his attention on her legs? Was it because her dress was way too short, revealing her knees and the first inches of her thighs? Was it  simply because he wanted her? Before long, the song ended and she took the opportunity to regain her composure, a few yards away from him.

_We're half-way,_ she thought, dabbing her damp forehead with a handkerchief. _He arrived fifty minutes ago, he's supposed to leave within ten minutes, but I need to make him stay half an hour if-_

“Are you tired, Sansa?” he asked her, catching her off guard. His voice broke the silence and only then she realized she had been picking a sleeve then absent-mindedly putting it back in the box twice. “Do you need a break?”

She heard him stand up and walk toward her. For some reason she kept her eyes downcast, staring at the box full of records. The scrutiny she was under became unbearable and her eyes squeezed shut. _I shouldn't have said I felt sad, to move him to pity. That was a stupid idea if I ever had one._

With reluctance, she turned to him. He was so close he only had to extend his arm to touch her. At that moment, Sansa had the strangest impression: it seemed to her she could read his thoughts and what she perceived in his pale eyes were dozens of questions and urges swirling and seemingly giving him no respite. _He's going to kiss me,_ she understood, unable to react.

Her feet glued to the carpet, she watched him taking one more step and placing both hands on her waist. He leaned forward and kissed her lips tenderly. Sansa neither responded to his kiss nor rebuffed him; she felt petrified by his unexpected boldness, by what Baelish had demanded from her and by the consequences this kiss could have on her relationship with Sandor. _All this is going too fast._ Had she escaped from her body to watch herself as he kissed her in the middle of the bedroom, things wouldn't have been different.

She clung to that vision – her slender figure, standing still in her pretty dress with a skirt revealing her legs while the fair-haired man placed his hands on her waist and kissed her – and all of a sudden, she realized it was exactly the way she pictured her first kiss when she was a little girl. Years ago, she wanted a pink dress as flimsy as this one – though she was now scantily clad, compared to the dress of her childish daydreaming – she longed for a blond man who would be as elegant as Berdokhovski; she wished her prince would put his hands on her hips, gently, before kissing her. In her dreams, the kiss was tender and almost sensible rather than passionate.

_I'm not a little girl anymore,_ she mused, clenching her jaw. _Perhaps I once wanted all this – the flowers and the pretty dress, the fair-haired prince and the creature comfort he promises me – but I've made up my mind._ She might know what she needed and wished to be happy now, however she had no clue about the best way to turn him down without breaking his heart. Let alone how to make the man stay after she had rejected him.

His mouth seemed to hover over hers for a few seconds, waiting for her reaction, then he pulled away and his arms dangled at his sides. The blue eyes soon reflected his disappointment and she chided herself for not being able to find the proper thing to say.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I didn't expect a kiss.”

_Liar, you're a liar._ A pained expression on her face, she looked up at him.

“Are you angry at me?” she added, ashamed. _You have every right to be._

“Of course not. I shouldn't have kissed you. Old men are supposed to be wiser than young ones, but in my experience, aging just makes us more impatient.”

He smiled at that, trying to sound lighthearted, failing to convince Sansa and perhaps not believing his own words.

“You're not old.”

“Oh really? Let's face it Sansa, I could be your father, I'm even older than your late father, and that's probably the reason why you're not attracted by me.”

“I could be,” she countered, without the slightest idea of where their conversation was heading. “I trust you. I just need time.”

_I decided I would not try to seduce him; what am I doing for God's sake?_

“Time?” he repeated. “I'm afraid we don't have much time. You, my dear, because Mr. Baelish wants to sell you as soon as possible and I, because, well... Anyone can see the reasons why I don't have much time on my face.”

Despite his half-smile, he was pointing at his wrinkles, while his other hand hung loosely at his side; Sansa glanced at it and she guessed he was only waiting for a signal to wrap his arm around her waist. She suddenly wondered why their situation was so strange: as she lived in a brothel, she should have been the one who tried to convince him she needed his help. She should have begged him to let her live with him, whereas he was always eager to persuade Sansa he would keep her safe and make sure she wanted for nothing. Jeyne Poole would roll her eyes and say it's unfair.

“Baelish and Peitho attend a concert,” she said on an impulse. “They won't come back before several hours.”

“What am I supposed to do with that piece of information?” he trailed off.

“You keep saying we don't have much time,” she went on, her heart pounding wildly. “Well, we have time tonight. You can stay longer. Nobody will notice it. And I think we need to talk, now.”

Berdokhovski didn't answer at first; he contemplated Sansa for long seconds, as if he wanted to etch in his memory her features and every detail of her face at that moment, when she had asked him to stay. He doesn't understand, she thought. _He trusts me when he shouldn't._ Her nails dug deep in her palm, but Berdokhovski was too busy staring at her face to notice.

“Let's talk, then,” he said, trying to hide his frustration behind a smile.

She couldn't help watching the thin line of his lips; these lips had kissed her tenderly, waiting for her mouth to open for him - though not insisting. Uncomfortable, Sansa averted her eyes and hugged herself. _Should I put another record on the turntable? Does it seem derisory now? Will any of the girls pay attention if I don't?_

“What do you want to talk about, dear?” he asked.

“This situation... Us... I don't know.”

A smile gracing his lips, Berdokhovski brushed her cheek and once more she told herself it was exactly how she imagined her relationship with the man of her dreams, when she was seven. Realizing she didn't care about all this anymore surprisingly hurt.

Wondering what would happen if she encouraged him, if she gave him the slightest of spurs, she leaned in and let his fingertips explore the side of her neck. If it felt pleasant, it didn't give her the shudder she expected. _I didn't overestimate my lack of reaction to Berdokhovski's presence when I tried to reassure Sandor. He just doesn't have any effect on me._

Yet the tall man facing Sansa misunderstood her gesture and he went on, relishing the softness of her skin, then running his fingers through her short hair. “You're so beautiful.”

 Hearing that sentence countless times had immunized her, in all likelihood. She smiled back, glad he didn't take more liberties with her and kept treating her like a princess. In the end, she put her small hand on his then gently took it, removing his fingers from her cheek and leading him towards the edge of the bed where they both sat down.

"Why me?” she suddenly asked him, as their fingers were still intertwined and rested on the bedspread, in the narrow space between their bodies. “You can have anyone. I mean... you could find someone more suitable for you, someone who doesn't live in a brothel.”

“Can I be completely honest with you? You probably think, like most people, that all the women belonging to the best circles are fair and honest. The truth is, I met more honest girls in places like this one than in the dinner parties I attended. Maybe they don't sell their bodies – or do they? - but they lie, they pretend and when you scratch the surface, you're always disappointed.”

A long silence was the only answer he got from her.

“You're different,” he added. “Because your parents raised you as a lady. You're so aware of your 'fall' it sometimes hurts me to see how you lower yourself.”

“But why take these risks? Why burden yourself with the letters? Why waste money on me?”

Suddenly, the notion of her betrayal was unbearable and she wanted him to finally realize what she was doing. She wanted him to hate her and to shout how selfish and despicable she was.

He snorted. “Wasting money? You think I waste money when I come to visit you, when I talk with my banker to know how much I can offer the day you're sold? You think buying your freedom is wasting money? This fortune I made throughout the years had no purpose until I decided to buy your freedom and to take you out of this place.”

Sansa clenched her teeth, not because she was thinking about Sandor and Tyrion's scheme to help her escape. Berdokhovski's plan seemed doomed to fail, now that Baelish expressed more clearly his desire to have her for himself.

He stood up and turned to face her, before leading her to the French window. Moving aside the heavy curtains, he showed her the city lights, glowing like fading stars in the night.

Staying close, Sansa glanced at his harmonious features. Only the white hair growing on his temple betrayed his age. _He would treat me right. He would be a companion and a friend, never pushing me._

As he swiveled his head to smile at her, she averted her eyes and pretended to marvel at the night landscape. In the distance, there were so many lights the South of Manhattan looked like a black and white polka-dot scarf. _I already betrayed him. I made a choice._ She snapped her eyes closed, as if she refused to face reality, but when she opened them again, she was standing on the same spot, wearing the same stupid dress and Berdokhovski was still so close she could smell his Cologne.

“What if you made a mistake and I'm not able to make you happy?” she asked him.

Her question came so abruptly he didn't answer at first. Slowly spinning on his heels, he faced her and locked eyes with her.

“If you knew you had a chance to be happy – just one tiny chance – wouldn't you seize the opportunity? Wouldn't you give it a go? My friends would agree with you. They'd say I'm wasting money. They would call me a fool for coming in this place again and again to see you.”

He paused and contemplated her for a while, then he closed the distance between them. Suddenly serious, he brushed her cheek again and he let the pad of his thumb ghosting over her rouged lips.

“Do you know what I thought when I first met you?” he inquired.

Sansa shook her head. Berdokhovski tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

“I found you beautiful, of course, and sad. So sad and so frightened I called myself a brute for asking you to dance and for being here, I guess. Before the end of my visit, you seemed more confident though, and you finally let yourself go during the last dance. I remember it was one of the songs by that composer you admire: Irving Berlin. And while you were dancing, I realized something. I could fall in love with you. I didn't expect an affair, like those I had before. I didn't expect a perfect love story either. I wanted you to shake up my convictions and my habits. I wanted you to hurt me perhaps. You looked like you could.”

Staring at the oriental patterns on the rug, Sansa felt his hand on her bare shoulder. She tried to suppress the goosebumps on her skin, but knowing she failed miserably, she did the only thing she thought necessary for both of them at that moment and she snuggled up to his chest, like a little girl. _He deserves it,_ she told herself, wrapping her arm around his waist and welcoming his hands on the small of her back. With her head in the crook of his neck, he couldn't kiss her but at least he would know how she cared for him.

“Why are you telling me this?” she whispered, feeling the speed of her pulse increase. She could tell his own heart pounded wildly in his chest.

“My mother used to say that night conveys all sorts of magic. I read once that the sun sets because, at night, we can say things we wouldn't dare to say by daylight.”

As he held her tightly, she wondered if he understood her sudden desire to be in his arms only concealed her true feelings. They stayed like that for a long time, neither of them daring to break the silence. When he finally found the courage to put light kisses on her forehead and on her temples, she whined and squirmed in his arms until he stopped. Berdokhovski didn't insist and let out a resigned sigh.

They walked back to the bed again, though their embrace made them clumsy and they sat down there. He didn't try to make her sit in his lap, but as she rested her head on his shoulder, she followed his stare and understood he was looking intently at the hem of her dress. As she pressed her knees against each other, his hand left her waist to brush the first inches of her thighs, caressing her legs through the imperceptible and shiny barrier of her silk stockings.

“Look at me,” he begged her, probably seeking her agreement before going further.

She complied and held his gaze; at that very moment, Sansa told herself anything was possible, that this was a sort of crossroads. Whatever road she decided to take would change her future. Swallowing hard and looking at him straight in the eyes, she merely shook her head and that was it: she had turned him down. He might come back and pretend he still wanted to watch her dance, he might shower her with expensive gifts but the man was far too smart to ignore she had taken a decision. He hastily removed his hand from her knees and he placed it on her upper arm.

In the street, a car came hurtling in and honked the horn with so much insistence Sansa jumped and clutched to Berdokhovski's waistcoat. The spell was broken, though.

“It's alright,” he trailed off, and she wondered if he tried to reassure her or to comfort himself.

There was another heavy silence and he sighed again. He didn't lose his grip on her, and Sansa read it as a proof he needed time to face up the reality of her choice.

“What did this Lannister boy do to you?” he suddenly whispered.

Why he asked this now didn't matter for Sansa; the mere mention of Joffrey brought back the memory of what she was doing that night and how she had betrayed Berdokhovski. She turned briefly to the clock, saw it was half past ten and repressed a shudder.

“Are you in business with the Lannisters?” she inquired instead of answering.

Berdokhovski stiffened a bit and he pulled away from her. “Of course I am. I wonder if there's a single man in town who isn't involved in some kind of deal with the Lannisters. Why are you asking, dear?”

She didn't replied and let the silence stretch in the room; Sansa felt like each passing second made things worse, aggravated the sin she had committed during that night. His eyes widened slowly in realization but he shook his head in denial. She couldn't be a part of the cruel tricks the Lannisters intended to play on him.

“They're searching your mansion,” she said, her bottom lip trembling. “They forced me to keep you busy until they were done. I didn't have a choice... Maybe it's not too late, maybe you can hurry to your home and-”

The notion there was still something to do to thwart the Lannisters' plan was a lie and she knew it. He raised to his full height so briskly she almost lost her balance and had to cling to the bed's column not to fall. When she looked up at him, his pale blue eyes blamed her for telling the truth too late, for being so deceptive. _He finally understood,_ she noticed bitterly. Without a word, Berdokhovski went to the armchair where he had left his jacket, walked to the door and disappeared in the night. His car hurtled off in the street, the screech of tires sounding like the reproach he didn't voice out loud before leaving.

* * *

She cried as she prepared herself before Sandor's secret visit. Not that she believed her tears would change anything. Oddly enough, she found a strange kind of comfort in her weeping reflection whenever she moved past the mirror.

After calming down, she sat on the bathtub rim and waited for him in the dark. The creaking of the metallic staircase only increased the speed of her pulse and when his tall figure appeared in the window frame, she stood up and thought back on the previous night and instantly remembered the contact of his lips on her bare breasts. _How can I think about this now?_ she chided herself, folding her arms around her chest. _After what happened..._

In two long strides he was standing in front of her, then he visibly rued the dim light, for he extended his arm to reach the electric switch. The light flooded the bathroom and he took his time to observe her, it almost seemed he was afraid to find something changed in her. Meanwhile she stared at him, focusing on details like the breadth of his shoulders, the metallic buttons securing his suspenders she could see in his half-open coat.

Sandor probably noticed her red eyes; he lifted his large hand and brushed her cheekbone. Chewing her lip, she prepared herself to endure his questions and to make a detailed report of Berdokhovski's visit, but instead, she wondered if she had heard him correctly when he asked: “Do you feel tired tonight, Little Bird?”

_What does it mean? What's the underlying meaning, assuming there is one?_

“Do you feel tired?” he repeated.

Her voice was only a whisper. “I don't know. I don't think I am.”

“Fine. I'm going to take you out tonight.”

As her eyes widened like saucers, Sandor went on: “You deserve it, girl. At least one night of freedom. Even if you're forced to go back to your gilded cage come the morning.”

Sansa couldn't believe it and he quietly chuckled at her astonishment.

“There's a car waiting for us in the street,” he explained, as his finger traced her jaw line. “You put on some pretty clothes and you'll have your first night out of this place since... Well, you bloody know what I mean. I've got some solid food in the car. And we only have to be back at dawn. I talked to the old cook earlier, she'll cover for you.”

He turned his head to the bathroom door, as if he expected Rose to show up now that he had mentioned her.

“She should be there already,” he said without trying to hide his impatience.

A light knock on the door made her jump and she left him by the bathtub to open her bedroom door: Rose was staring at her suspiciously, a look Sansa was getting used to when Sandor was involved. _I agreed to help you,_ her faded blue eyes said, _not to talk to this brute of a man._ Wary, she came in when Sansa moved aside and she scanned the room, visibly relieved not to see Sandor.

“He's in the bathroom,” Sansa told her with resignation. _I can't tell her he's not here, even if she thinks I'd be better without him._

The bathroom door creaked and he ducked his head to join them. He nodded curtly when he met Rose's exasperated eyes and Sansa found there was something sheepish in the way he glanced at the old cook. The girl watched them as Rose seemed ready to slap the face of the war veteran across the room. _Going out. Coming back here at dawn but spending the night away from this place. Clothes. Be quick about it._

Instinctively, she looked at him, trying to figure out what kind of clothes he expected her to put on. His ordinary outfit – his usual black overcoat over a white shirt which sleeves might be crumpled, a dull gray waistcoat and a pair of black trousers – didn't give her the inspiration she sought. And his black shoes – brogan boots, most likely – had known better days. She chided herself for being so futile and she walked to her closet, retrieved a blue dress, her coat, stockings and underwear. On an impulse, she took the finest pieces of underclothing she had and she avoided their gaze as she walked past them to lock herself in the bathroom.

After putting her burden of clothes on the rim of the bathtub, Sansa pressed her back against the door. Then, shaking like a leaf, she removed her dressing-gown, let her nightgown fall to the tiled floor until it looked like a baby pink puddle. Once naked, she looked up at the mirror and stopped trembling. Though she couldn't see anything below her waist, her reflection disturbed her, probably because Sandor was just behind the door. She guessed he was thinking of her at that very moment, undressed and preparing herself. Did Rose's reproachful presence prevent him from imagining her naked or did his mind wander where it shouldn't, like hers?

Sansa recognized the now familiar sensation in her belly and she slowly turned to the door. If the old cook hadn't been there – unwillingly chaperoning them – Sansa would have stayed still, watching the door with its chrome-plated steel hook, wondering if he was thinking of her. That power she seemed to have on him was disturbing and exhilarating at the same time. Dying to open the door, she would have waited with bated breath until she heard a timid knock then his raspy voice, asking if everything was alright. She called herself an idiot and shook her head to remove the thoughts.

The step-in panties and the brassiere were as soft on her skin as their shiny fabric promised. She slipped into the liberty blue dress and finally she rested her foot on the bathtub rim to put on her silk stockings. Taking a sharp intake of breath, though she couldn't find a valid reason to explain her nervousness, she unlocked the door and smoothly slipped it open.

He cleared his throat. “Are you ready?”

As she mumbled her response, walking on tiptoe to the closet to take her shoes and her hat, she admitted he wasn't comfortable either. Rose was sitting on the oversized armchair and she arched an eyebrow, looking at the bed. While putting on her shoes, Sansa glanced at the bed too, and she noticed what Sandor had done during her absence. In all likelihood, he had taken all the cushions and pillows he could find to shove them under the blankets as if someone was lying there. From the bedroom door and with the dim light of the bed, it was convincing enough, hopefully.

“She'll stay in your room,” Sandor explained, “and if Littlefinger knocks at your door, she'll tell him you cried yourself to sleep after what happened tonight.”

Rose frowned at that: she didn't know what Sansa was supposed to do nor why it could make her so sad. Sansa wondered if he acknowledged her right to cry over Berdokhovski's infortune: perhaps he wasn't as jealous as she feared he was. She nodded distractedly and smiled at Rose.

“There are more blankets in the closet, if need be,” she told the old woman.

“Let's go now,” he told her after a glance at his pocket watch.

He led her to the bathroom, then to the window; he opened it and he stepped out first before helping her. Her heels made a weird sound on the metallic landing. She felt the invigorating coolness of the air and she remembered the first days of February were always colder and more windy in the North. The weather was maybe rather warm that year by most New Yorkers' standards.

“It's a beautiful night,” she said.

Sandor was already on the lower level and he looked up at her, wondering what she was doing. She clung to the cold guardrail and began to go downstairs, but she was moving too slowly for him. He sighed and turned back, shaking his head.

“Can't you hurry up, girl?”

“The staircase looks slippery. If I hurry up, I'll fall and-”

“Why did you take pretty shoes?” he ranted. “Fuck! Why in hell did you need to put on high heels?”

Before she could explain she didn't have anything more convenient in her closet, he grabbed her middle, lifted her over his broad shoulder and began to carry her without ceremony, as if she was a sack of potatoes. Abashed and indignant, she swallowed her protestations and tried not to feel sick. The swaying made her eyes squeeze shut and when she could stand up again, relief flooded her.

He took her hand in his. “The car. Hurry up.”

They left the back alley to reach the street then to rush into a black car Sansa recognized for she had seen it at the Red Mansion. It was one the mysterious cars the Lannisters' men used to go from one place to another. _To make deals, to threaten people who dared resist extortion._ She sat beside him, surprised to see the street from the front seat. As far as she remembered, she had always been in the passenger compartment when she got into a limousine or at least on the back seat. The odor of stale cigarette wasn't something she would call pleasant, but she told herself it was part of tonight's adventure.

“It's strange to have you there,” Sandor commented. Despite the darkness, she knew he was staring at her.

“Strange in a good way, I hope.”

Instead of answering her, he started up the engine and they left. At first, she looked at the streets, relishing the sight of houses and buildings, with their narrow facade. The city seemed to doze and they were driving through it, going inconspicuous among dozens of cars similar to the one Sandor had borrowed.

When she had her fill of night urban landscape, she gazed at him and had she not bitten her lip, she would have chuckled: despite the rather large passenger compartment, Sandor was so tall he had to hunch his shoulders not to hit the roof. He was obviously cramped for room.

“Are you alright?” he inquired, suddenly aware her eyes were on him.

Sansa muttered that everything was fine and she guessed his next question would regard a certain Russian man and his visit, earlier that night.

“The Little Bird isn't too cold?” he went on, trying to sound lighthearted.

“No.” _He's avoiding the subject,_ she thought.

Momentary relief soon gave way to anxiety, as she convinced herself the more they waited before talking about Berdokhovski, the more painful it could be for both of them. Sandor focused on the road and on her, as well: more often than not, his large hand brushed her knee and he glanced at her every time he could. In the end, as they headed South, she closed the distance remaining between them and she rested her head on his shoulder.

“Already tired?” he rasped. “Do you want me to put you to bed, girl?”

Now that they were getting closer, the innuendos he seemed to cherish at the beginning of their relationship had become scarce. Although she would never admit it, Sansa regretted them for she smiled at his remark. Mischievously, she placed her hand on his knee and she began to trace small circles on it.

“Behave,” he chided her. “You're not supposed to distract the driver's attention.”

As Sansa removed her hand, he sighed deeply and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

“Do you think I can drive like this?” he asked.

“I'm sure you can.”

She soon recognized the huge harbor of New York, deserted at this time of night. In the distance, she could see ships ready to sail away and to leave North America for Europe or for Brazil. That notion gave her some comfort, unless it was the warmth emanating from Sandor's body, and she relaxed.

They moved past warehouses and followed their route near the docks and when Sandor finally pulled over, she wondered in what kind of place he wanted to spend the night. She wiped off the condensation left by their breath on the car window and tried to peek out: the nearest boats were small ones, this part of the harbor therefore looked like a marina. If she expected to kick up her heels that night, she had come to the wrong place. Some street lamps provided a ring of light which only proved there was not a living soul.

The front seat moved underneath her when Sandor left the car and walked around to open the door for her, giving a hint of a mocking bow.

“Where are we going to?” she asked, looking around her as he retrieved a basket from the trunk.

“See the boat out there? I know its owner. He owes me one, so I borrowed his boat.”

They walked to the pier and Sansa took in the small boat with its garish green paint, its tiny cabin and she imagined it was a former fishing boat his owner had turned into a pleasure craft.

Though complaining about her dress and her high-heeled shoes, Sandor helped her get on board and he followed her on the deck, where he set down the basket.

“Are you taking me for a boat ride?” she asked.

“Nope. I'm no sailor. Can't tell you I got my sea-legs while crossing the Atlantic. It's just... I wondered where I could take you tonight and it seemed so unfair to lock you in another room. I wanted you to breathe some fresh air.”

Apart from the shriek of some seagull and a muffled sound of a distant foghorn, the lapping against the hull was the only sound they could hear for a few heartbeats. _Berdokhovski offered me a bunch of expensive roses and he gives me a night of freedom._ The comparison she was tempted to make was cruel.

“You would feel more comfortable in a different place,” he added, mistaking her silence.

“No.” She stepped forward and brushed his ruined cheek. “I would have never imagined something like this. I love the idea. I just wish we could escape tonight.”

Visibly moved by her reaction, Sandor tried to hide his feelings under a heavy dose of derision.

“D'you see the fucking Imp around? Waddling on his twisted little legs, speechifying?”

Despite his pitiless mockery, she smiled. “You're mean, Sandor! Are you sure you didn't lock him in the cabin?”

“No, Ma'am. The cabin would be for us, anyway.”

He pulled her close, ducking his head to breathe in her scent. Sansa didn't resist, though the way he avoided any discussion about Berdokhovski puzzled her. _We should talk about this: what is left unsaid is always dangerous. But if he doesn't want to talk about it now, I respect his decision._ She relaxed in his arms as he left a trail of kisses on her jawline and her neck, then he suddenly stopped.

“I brought some food,” he informed her.

“That's very kind of you, but I already ate.”

“A bowl of soup and an apple? I don't call that a supper. What's in the basket is solid food.”

Sansa sometimes wondered about what he called 'solid food'; she assumed everything that wasn't meat or bread or potatoes didn't deserve the name of 'food', by his standards. She chuckled.

“They keep you starving out there,” he added. “You're skinny.”

“I thought you liked me the way I am,” she protested, feigning indignation.

Sansa put both her hands on his chest and she pretended to pull away from him.

Far from loosening his grip, he snaked his arms around her waist and shoulders, then whispered to her ear: “I saw you, girl.” His husky voice made her shiver and she instinctively arched her back; her reaction spurred him, and when he tightened his grip again, his hot breath tickled her neck. “You were half naked. Remember? I saw you, I can tell you're skinny.”

She felt his answer rather than she heard it; in the darkness, his features were unreadable yet she guessed his eyes had darkened with lust. He regained his seriousness though, and let go of her. On the evidence of the gurgling coming from his stomach, he was ravenous: it was time to eat.

They stayed on the deck during their improvised supper, looking at the lights reflected by water, trying to make out the ghostly frames of boats in the dark. Sandor brought a hurricane lamp out of the basket, then sandwiches.

“Did you make these?” she asked him as he held out a sandwich for her.

In Sansa's eyes, it seemed that someone had taken a loaf of bread, sliced it, then stuffed it with ham steak. The sandwiches were commensurate with the tall, broad-shouldered man in front of her. He nodded grudgingly, thus confirming her intuition.

“So you cooked for me?” she teased Sandor.

“You call that cooking? Fuck me!”

“You prepared something for me. How kind of you!”

Genuinely touched by his attentions, she brushed Sandor's cheek tenderly and only removed her hand when he commanded her to eat. He mocked her for nibbling on the sandwich, like a mouse, then he was forced to finish off her food. To wash down the stodgy sandwiches, he gave her some lemonade while he knocked back the mysterious content of a flask.

Finally, he retrieved a brown paper bag from the basket with a smug smile. If his triumphant smile was any indication, he was satisfied of what he had brought to finish a supper that looked like a picnic. In Sansa's opinion, his sudden confidence probably meant someone else had made the dessert. Sadly, his twisted smile vanished as soon as he got two candy apples out of the bag: after some hours spent in the brown paper bag, they stuck to each other. _Like us when we kiss._

After two unsuccessful attempts, he separated the red and glossy spheres, but not without any damage: one of the candy apples half broke while a chunk stuck to the other one. Cursing, he kept the ruined apple for himself and gave her the big one out of gallantry. _If something teared us apart, I wouldn't feel whole again,_ she mused. _Sandor wouldn't either._

Wordless, he watched her eat the candy apple by the flickering light of the hurricane lamp. The hard layer of sugar resisted her onslaught at first, then as the sweet taste of brown sugar and cinnamon tickled her tongue, she bit the apple. Combined with the sticky, luscious coating, the soft flesh of the apple was delicious, though she felt she couldn't eat without staining her chin and the corner of her lips. She tried to wipe away the red stains and noticed how Sandor stared at her.

Although he was perfectly still, holding the ruined candy apple, she realized he was restraining himself from taking her in his arms and carrying her inside the cabin. Instead of averting her eyes, she held his gaze, thus showing the prospect of spending the night with him in a place she didn't know and where she couldn't find any help didn't scare her.

Spurred on by her confidence he most likely didn't expect, he quickly swallowed his apple, tossed the stick and the core in the water before hastily putting away the leftovers of their meal and the bottle of lemonade in the basket. When he motioned her inside with an incline of his head, she followed him, her skin covering with goosebumps in anticipation.

The cabin's ceiling was so low Sandor couldn't stand straight; after hitting the ceiling twice, he sunk into an old armchair that was the only piece of furniture with a berth. The musty smell of the cabin made her smile.

“I can totally imagine you living here,” she said.

“In a place where I have to bend over not to hit the ceiling?” he asked in disbelief. “With this fucking foul smell? Besides, I told you I don't have sea legs, girl.”

“I'm sure your room in the Red Mansion looks a bit like this: not much furniture...” She paused glancing around, thanks to the light the hurricane lamp provided. Here and there, she could see some dust. “I don't picture you as a sort of 'angel in the house' either.”

Though she only realized it afterward, the way she casually mentioned the place she used to live in before ending up in Baelish's house proved how relaxed she was in his company, far from her usual worries.

“You've never been in my room, Little Bird.”

There was a hint of provocation in his tone, and his remark sounded like an invitation. After dropping his coat to the floor, Sandor bent over and tugged her sleeve to get her attention; she stepped forward until her legs brushed his knee. She saw his eyes darkening with lust and she waited, wondering what he would ask her to do.

“Your hat,” he rasped.

She took off her hat, combed her short hair and dropped the hat on the berth. Sansa felt like the boat, though it was moored to the dock, swayed a bit more under her feet when she removed her coat. Her coat landed on Sandor's and she looked down at him, slightly arching her back. As she stood on the space between his open legs, he only had to extend his arm to touch the skirt of her dress. With its long sleeves, its modest round neckline and its rather dark shade of blue, her dress had nothing to do with the provocative outfits she wore during the shows, but his lustful gaze was enough for her to feel naked.

Caressing her leg through the woolen fabric, his hand went up until it reached her hip; his chapped lips had opened slightly and his breath had become rapid. Though neither of them talked, Sansa felt like she could straddle him without causing the temper tantrum that had dampened her spirits once, she thus rested one knee on the seat and he made some room for her.

Now that she straddled him, his eyes stopped wandering on her legs and hips to focus on her breasts; the contact between the silky fabric of her brassiere and her hardened nipples soon became uncomfortable. At that point, Sansa rested her hands on Sandor's shoulders and lowered herself to kiss him. He responded to her kiss with eagerness, pulling her close and stealing her breath. His iron grip told her how he had been waiting for this moment: one of his large hands pressed itself against the small of her back while the other one caressed her hip, her waist and soon the side of breasts.

Abandoning her mouth for a moment, his lips traveled along her neck and wandered on her collarbone until she moaned. She felt he was teasing her, trying to figure out if she would dare to ask for something or not; perhaps he overestimated his patience for he soon grabbed her hips and guided her movements against his groin. She gasped when feeling his hardness, but Sandor, enthralled by the way she reacted, went on and kissed her swollen lips again.

After a while, he stopped and locked eyes with her. “Tell me what you want,” he rasped.

She straightened her back, almost towering over him and relishing the impression of power it gave her.

“What you did to me the other night,” she whispered, feeling a bit provocative. “I want you to do it again.”

Sandor didn't need to be asked twice. Panting, he buttoned down her dress and helped her remove the long sleeves one after the other. He could have told her to take off her clothes but for some reason he didn't. Sansa thought she probably looked strange like that, with the sleeves of her dress hanging loosely on her hips, yet the way he leered at her chased away her interrogations. His lips parted before he placed his hand on her shoulder.

For long seconds, nothing happened and she held his stare, while enjoying the warmth radiating from his hand, then, his thumb slipped between her skin and the strap of her brassiere. He did the same on the other side, revealing the top of her breasts. _You're playing on my nerves,_ Sansa mentally complained, as he contemplated her. When he finally unhooked her brassiere – not without cursing in a undertone – he gave her another long look, before descending upon her.

Sucking and gently pinching her nipples, he made her moan louder than she ever had before.

“Nobody can hear you,” he growled before licking the tip of her breast again.

As threatening as it may sound in another context, his comment seemed to unleash something inside her. Wantonly, she rocked her hips against his and she went on mewling until he stopped abruptly, resting his hands on her waist.

“Enough,” he said.

Understanding her moans and her excitement were too much for him, she exhaled in frustration and she adjusted her dress, buttoning it up as fast as she could.

“Sit on my lap,” he whispered, softening.

She stood up and sat down again, this time on his knees, her back to him. As he usually did when he visited her in Baelish's house, he pulled her close and put a hand under her knees to lift her legs until her calves were supported by the armrest. Wondering what time it was, Sansa rested her head in the crook of his neck. From there, she could feel his pulse – slowly returning to normal – and see the beads of sweat on his temple; she wiped them away gently. For a while, the small, musty cabin was only filled by the faint sounds of their breathing. Outside, the gigantic harbor was completely silent and Sansa wished the rest of the world had forgotten them. After a minute or two, as she began to struggle against a persistent need to yawn, she felt Sandor stiffen a bit.

“So what happened with this prick you call Sweet Sister?” he rasped.

She took her time to answer, weighing her words.

“Baelish demanded me to delay him and I obeyed; I had no alternative.”

Sandor growled at that and against her upper body, his muscles tensed. _He wants details. I should tell him everything._

“He offered you roses.” He sounded reproachful and ashamed, as well, because the expensive bunch of flowers Berdokhovski had given her that night was a kind of extravagance he couldn't afford.

“They'll be withered in two days, forgotten in a week.” She paused. “This night, this boat, the picnic, the candy apples... I'll remember these things until I die.”

“Words,” he spat.

“What do you want me to confess? That I love him, because his gifts are more expensive? Baelish forced me to betray a man who's always been kind and respectful-”

“Respectful?” Sandor repeated mockingly. “He leers at you like the rest of your customers. He thinks he can fuck you because he's filthy rich and that's all.”

“You don't know him.” She shifted and locked eyes with Sandor.

“Fuck, girl! Why are you always defending him?”

Sansa bit her lip. If she decided to tell him the truth, she'd better do it quickly. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she anticipated his fit of rage. He held her in his arms and he could hurt her: she knew it, accepted the consequences of her choice and she swallowed hard.

“He offered to help me, Sandor.”

“What the fuck-”

“Berdokhovski offered to help me. By posting letters to Robb and by receiving my brother's answers, at first. Then by dealing with Baelish. He wanted to pay him so that I could leave the brothel and start a new life.”

He cursed. “A new life?” he repeated, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“As his mistress. It was part of the deal. Later on he agreed on helping Evie too. He was supposed to help her escape until Baelish shattered my hopes.”

A quick glance at his hand revealed his white knuckles. When she looked up at his face again, she saw he was staggered.

“Tell me you refused,” Sandor begged.

There was a long silence and she felt his hand fisting the fabric of her dress.

“How long?” he growled. “When did he suggested all this?”

“Sandor, it's more complicated than you seem-”

“How long?” He didn't need to shout to make her tremble like a leaf; his low rasp was much more ominous than any of Baelish's screams.

Though she couldn't suppress her nervous shudder, Sansa accepted the situation, well-aware she had triggered Sandor's fury.

“Six weeks. Perhaps more, I can't remember.”

He cursed again and her eyes squeezed shut; she would have given anything at that moment to calm him down.

“You have to understand!” she protested. “You told me I wouldn't see Robb for a very long time, that I would perhaps never come back home. You refused to help Evie, even if you had-”

“Even if I fucked her... Is it what you mean?” he barked.

“Do you think it's easy for me, to know you spent your nights with her, to realize you came week after week to visit her?” she asked him, on the verge of tears. “I could have hated her for that, I could have ignored the situation she's in, but I didn't avert my eyes and I try to help her now.”

His chest heaving and his face distorted by rage, Sandor looked at her intently.

“So it's my fault? I refused to help Evie so you turned to Sweet Sister?”

“I guess an informed observer could say that.”

Her nerve impressed him, on the evidence of his snort.

“I couldn't turn his offer down if I wanted him to help Evie,” she explained, regaining her composure. “So I pretended to be interested... I lied to him, but the more I lied the more I cared for him. I know what you think but he's a good person, compared to most people I met in Baelish's house.”

Tense and ready to unleash his anger, Sandor avoided her gaze for a few seconds, before facing her again. “You could choose the 'good person' over the murderer,” he said bitterly. “I'm sure you still can do that.”

“I chose Evie's safety tonight. And I chose you.”

Though his movements were imperceptible, she could have sworn he shook his head. The man to whom she was confessing herself still needed to rub salt in the wound.

“What happened tonight?” he asked. “How did you make him stay?” She thought his voice was going to break.

“I told him I was sad and I needed company. I danced. At some point, he kissed me.” Sandor stiffened  at that; she felt tiny and fragile, assuming she wouldn't be able to escape him assuming he decided to hit her. But he's not going to do that. “I didn't respond to his kiss, but I said we needed to talk, so we talked. He took me in his arms, but it had nothing to do with-”

“He held you in his arms? He touched you?” he growled.

“Sandor, no! I told you-”

His gray eyes glistened with a mix of rage and lust. “He touched you.”

“I swear he didn't. He held me in his arms, but nothing happened.”

_When is he going to stop torturing himself? How can I reason him?_ Sansa frantically searched her mind but didn't find a satisfactory answer. There was nothing to do except waiting for him to calm down.

“So he didn't undress you, he didn't touch your breasts?”

“It didn't happen,” she replied. “You know it.”

“He didn't make you moan?” he went on, cruel as ever.

They observed each other now, chest heaving and on their guard. Sandor's long thin hair hid his burns, so that all she could see from his features were his hooked nose and the gaunt side of his face. His hand began to play with the hem of her dress, while his eye challenged hers.

“What about this? He didn't try to have a look under your skirts?”

She could have protested, horrified by his accusations, yet she sensed, confusedly, that he waited for her reaction to decide whether she had betrayed him or not; her gaze would express that reaction he expected better than words. The speed of her pulse increased; meanwhile, the unnerving movement of his hand on her knee went on.

Silent and perfectly still, she held his stare as he slowly hitched up the skirt of her dress, soon revealing the top of her stockings, then her step-ins. She quivered under his touch and when his long fingers brushed her suspenders belt, tracing its shape unhurriedly. He couldn't help glancing down and she knew he was already calming down, that his sneer and his cruel tone would be feigned from now on. Her eyes followed his stare as he kept caressing on the top of her thighs with deliberately slow movements and the contrast between his large sunburned hands and her pale, smooth skin struck her.

“So he didn't touch you?” he asked, panting this time.

As she repeated that no, she would never let Berdokhovski touch her, his fingertips ghosted over the pearly-white satin of her panties. She chewed her bottom lip in apprehension when he began to caress her lower belly through the fabric. The now familiar sensation in her core came back instantly, more acute than before.

She heard him curse, though his tone was now devoid of anger, as he focused his attention between her legs, tracing small circles there. A jolt of pleasure surprised her and she couldn't repress a moaning.

“Look at me,” Sandor asked her, almost begging.

Sansa complied, searching in his eyes the confirmation he trusted her and finding there longing and anticipation in equal parts. His hand slipped under her panties, soon he was brushing the curls between her legs and resuming his caresses on her lower belly, teasing her folds. She took a sharp intake of breath. When he began to apply more pressure there, she stopped biting her lips to moan.

Clutching to his shoulder, she forgot all sense of propriety and opened her legs for him, eventually bucking her hips against his hand. The moment he slid a finger inside her, she stifled a gasp, overwhelmed by her senses. Sandor murmured something about the wetness he found there and her tightness, but she was too busy enjoying the moment to pay attention to his remark.The notion he was invading her, touching her like nobody had before and taking his time to pleasure her was crazy: unable to sit up straight, she gradually lied down until her shoulders were on the armrest. She arched her back, relishing the sensation of his hands on her, suddenly careless about her wanton attitude.

If she was losing control with each passing second, Sandor seemed to enjoy himself; she heard him groan his approval once or twice, and his finger moved faster inside her, as if he could read in her thoughts. _Don't stop, please don't stop._ All of a sudden, she felt like her body was shaken by waves of pleasure and though she knew she was hurting him, her nails dug deeply in his arm, while inarticulate sounds escaped her lips. Sandor's hand didn't stop moving until she curled up against him, shaking. She mumbled, half protesting when he removed his hand from between her legs then when he rested it on her lower belly, just on top of her step-in panties.

“What was that?” she asked him, her voice weak and trembling. She knew what had happened, like any girl who had lived with prostitutes long enough to learn what was going on between men and women, yet she wanted him to confirm her intuition.

“You just came,” he whispered in her ear. “Fuck, it was good.”

“I never felt that before,” she confessed, trying to sit up but reaching for Sandor's wrist so that he kept his warm hand on her belly.

“I know.” Suddenly, his voice sounded apologetic. “I'm sorry I shouted at you.”

“Shouting at me is nothing. Besides, I acted like a fool with Berdokhovski, convincing myself Evie could escape thanks to his help... You know what hurt me? Knowing that you don't trust me, that despite all the things I did you still question my feelings.”

She paused, cupping his chin and trying to find an answer in the gray eyes he stubbornly kept downcast.

“Is it because we never... slept together?” she added, her cheeks aflame.

He shifted, ill-at-ease. _You certainly don't want to lose your maidenhood in a brothel. Nobody wants to._ Her eyes widened as soon as she remembered his remark, during one of his previous visits and for a split second, she thought she had figured out why they were in the boat. _Because it's not a brothel, because there's no one here to disturb us._ Sansa glanced at the bed; if he wanted this proof to trust her completely, she would give it to him gladly.

“I'm yours,” she told him. “We can-”

Her arms snaked around his neck but he stopped her at once.

“I'm not going to take you tonight. I would hurt you.”

Defeated, she rested both hands on his chest and focused on his waistcoat, trying to forget the unpleasant warmth that burned her cheeks and betrayed her confusion.

“And I trust you,” he added.

Her eyes fell down on his lap and she couldn't help looking at the bulge in his pants.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

Her question took him unawares and he stammered before being able to utter a proper response: “It's not painful, girl, it's uncomfortable. And it's fucking embarrassing when you keep staring at it.”

She met his gray eyes, her hand slowly caressing the hard muscles of his abdomen. “I could please you, Sandor. I never done this before, but I could. It would be fair.” Her fingers stopped on his waist, mindlessly brushing the securing buttons of his suspenders. “Besides, there's no bathroom to lock you in,” she whispered.

His breathing sounded quicker now. “I don't want you to think you need to do this because I pleasured you before. Give me only five minutes and-”

“It's not only fair. I want to do it. I'm ready to do it.”

The trust and desire his gray eyes conveyed made her throat dry. He claimed her mouth, then muttered something about him lying down on the bed. She stood up, tried to ignore her wobbling knees and followed him to the berth. Before he sat down there, she began to help him remove his waistcoat, his white shirt and his undershirt. His suspenders hanging loosely on his sides, he lied down and made some room for her. The berth was narrow and it's musty smell could have made her cringe in different circumstances, but Sansa's attention focused on the man lying next to her.

Wordlessly, she propped herself on her elbow to brush his collarbone; then, she answered his pleading eyes by kissing his chest, leisurely, enjoying his smell, listening to his ragged breathing as she got closer to his waist. Her lips followed the trail of dark hair on his stomach, and he groaned his approval every time her tongue tickled the rippling muscles of his abdomen. His skin tasted of salt: she told herself she should remember that detail too, like an important part of their night away from Baelish's house. The dark hair was thicker on the last inches of his abdomen, right above his pants; she stopped kissing him and sat up, her inquiring look clearer than any question.

“We'll do this together,” he promised.

When her shaky hands began to button down his pants, he helped her, though he probably wanted to relish the sensation of her hands on him. He squirmed until his member jutted out of his pants, longer and bigger than she imagined. Despite the dim light – now that they were on the berth, she turned her back to the hurricane lamp – the sight of his manhood, with dark thick hair at its base, impressed her. _I'm not going to take you tonight. I would hurt you._ He wasn't joking, she acknowledged it now: he would indeed hurt her and Sansa wondered if that _thing_ between his legs could move inside her without inflicting her an agonizing pain.

“It's alright,” he said, noticing how she flinched. “You're not forced to do anything, girl. You can wait for me here if you want.”

Though the movements elicited muffled groans of discomfort, he began to adjust himself. Her hand stopped his gesture.

“I'm sure I can do it, Sandor.”

She stammered, she was blushing and she looked so nervous he couldn't question her explanations about Berdokhovski: she saw in his eyes a mix of emotions, from relief – for he was now sure his jealousy was pointless – to guilt – because she seemed so flustered. And among these emotions, excitement shone through, making his gray eyes darken. With bated breath, she placed her hand on him, her fingertips brushing the soft skin of his member until he shuddered. Another swear word escaped his lips but that time, the way he tilted his head back told her the mere contact of her hands aroused him. Exhaling deeply, he took her hand in his and guided her. Her hand wrapping his member, she began to stroke him slowly at first, thanks to Sandor's guidance, then at a steady pace.

He stiffened under her touch; at some point he locked eyes with her and she felt like she could see in him, watch the dark aspect of his personality, the one the rest of the world knew and feared, with his violence, his lust and his self-destructive tendency. This wild side of Sandor's character inevitably appeared with excitement, or so it seemed. However, behind that scary figure, she caught a glimpse at the man he could become and although it was a fleeting vision, she cherished it.

His mouth slightly ajar and his eyes half-closed, Sandor was slowly letting himself go. His hand, at first firmly holding Sansa's to guide her, fell on his stomach and a weird feeling of pride budded inside her, because his moans and the visible pleasure he experienced was from only her deed.

“Don't stop,” he whispered, clutching to the rough and musty blanket that covered the berth.

Though she called herself an idiot afterward, she couldn't help smiling: he looked so fragile for once and she felt strong, almost invincible in comparison. His breathing became erratic, as well as his movements and all of a sudden, he seemed to regain his senses in time to retrieve his handkerchief from his pocket and to wrap it around his member. She removed her hand hastily, just before his release. “Sansa!” he moaned, arching his back.

He seldom used her first name; in the Red Mansion, he sometimes called her _'Miss Sansa'_ , or _'Sansa Stark'_ , but he always used her christian name to make fun of her, whereas _'Little Bird'_ was a term of endearment. He didn't sound derisive that time, though, only desperate to be with her. She sensed confusedly that calling her name at that very moment was his way to share something with her; that coming undone with her name on his lips was a kind of solace because he wasn't inside her.

Unbidden, details of Evie's confession came back in her mind: _'One night, when we were together, the Hound shouted your name.'_ She bit her lip. _How long have you been doing this? Stroking yourself or visiting prostitutes but pretending you were with me?_

A lump in her throat, she gazed at his face: panting, yet serene as he lied on his back, he swiveled his head to look at her.

“Are you scandalized?” he asked, regaining his sense of provocation. “Are you frightened, Little Bird?”

“No.” _I'm so in love with you it's ridiculous._ “And I like it when you call me Sansa.”

He tossed the now useless handkerchief to the floor – ignoring how she rolled her eyes – then he adjusted himself and he looked at her intently, rolling on his side to face her and cupping her chin.

“I thought you liked 'Little Bird.'” Disappointed, he brushed her jawline by the pad of his thumb, almost melancholic.

“I like 'Little Bird' because you gave me that nickname – though I hated it at first – but I love the way you say my name.” _When we share the same bed and you're losing control._ Sansa knew she sounded a bit suggestive but the atmosphere, that night, inclined toward provocation.

“Woman...” Sandor began, flipping her so that he could straddle her.

“You never called me that before.”

He kissed her forehead, her nose and finally whispered in her ear: “From now on, I'll call you 'woman' whenever we're in bed.”

They stayed like that for a while, before he decided it was time to go back to Baelish's house. It was nearly three o'clock. She combed her hair in front of the tiny, pockmarked mirror she found in a corner of the cabin.

With reluctance, she left the small boat, glancing around her shoulder a last time to etch in her memory the details of their night. On the deck, he picked up the basket while Sansa held the hurricane lamp. The sight of the brown paper bag where the candy apples had left reddish stains forced a smile out of him.

“I used to eat candy apples when I was on leave, in France. Do you know what's the French for _'candy apples'_?”

Sandor's years in Europe were still shrouded in mystery, yet she admitted most of the things he taught her – like the way she could use the Luger – were related to the war he had fought there.

“I didn't know they had candy apples,” she answered, wondering why that question had become suddenly essential, at three o'clock, as she was trying to match his long strides and failing miserably.

“They call them _'pommes d'amour'_ ," he told her, slowing down but avoiding her gaze.

Sandor knew she had been studying French for years, so he wasn't surprised when she commented: “ _'Love apples'_? Is that so?”

They had arrived in front of the black car he had borrowed in the Red Mansion. Without a glance toward Sansa, he nodded and carelessly tossed the basket in the trunk before opening the car door for her.

Speechless, Sansa watched the tall man whose features were partly hidden by his long hair and who suddenly seemed uncomfortable under her gaze. She sensed they would never speak about candy apples again – at least not for a long time – but coming from a man would always questioned her feelings for him and who wasn't able to utter words of love, she took this small, insignificant event as a confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're fluent in Russian, I might need your help... In this story, one character is born in Russia and I'd like to add a few words in his mother tongue: it's not even a complete sentence, only 5 or 6 words. 
> 
> Interested? Let me know on AO3 or on tumblr (asimplylucia). Thanks a lot in advance!


	19. Green Light, Red Light!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peitho held out another hairpin, so that Sansa could bring out the elegant line of the madam's neck. Sansa wasn't quick enough to take it from her hand, for the pin fell on the carpet.
> 
> “I'm sorry,” the girl apologized, squatting to pick up the hairpin. “God, I can't see it.. Oh, right here.”
> 
> She spotted the dark, metallic glisten of the hairpin next to the chair leg, reached out to seize it but Peitho was quicker. The sole of her pink marabou slippers blocked the pin in the blink of an eye and for a second, Sansa only saw the long thin feathers adorning her heeled slippers, and the dark hairpin stuck between the sole and the odorous woolen carpet; still kneeling next to her chair, Sansa looked up at the madam, who glared at her.
> 
> “I know what you did, Sansa. It makes me sick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I thank Underthenorthernlights for her precious help.
> 
> When I published the last chapter, I asked for help about something I wanted to translate in Russian. Filis (on FanFiction), ADK_SanSan and Hedgehogthebloodsucker (on tumblr) volunteered to lend a hand: thanks a lot to these three ladies! I appreciated greatly... and you'll soon discover what they helped me with.

Sitting in front of her dressing table, facing the mirror, Peitho wore a ivory silken blouse and a black skirt that made her look like the honorable woman she was not. Her back very straight and her chin up, she helped Sansa who was doing her long blond hair by giving the girl one hairpin after the other. The madam was quieter than usual that morning, but Sansa's thoughts – about Sandor and about their night on the boat – were enough to keep her busy; she didn't pay much attention to Peitho's silence. Her memories with Sandor easily overshadowed – for now – her guilt about Berdokhovski's misfortune.

It was eleven o'clock and it was more than enough time for the madam to prepare herself, but earlier that morning, a phone call had held her back in Baelish's office for half an hour, thus delaying her schedule. Chewing her lip, Sansa contemplated Peitho's hair, trying to decide if the wave of her blond hair was satisfactory or not.

“You look distracted, child,” Peitho told her. “There's a lock, here, right above my ear...”

Confused and ashamed by her blunder, Sansa tried to fix the small cowlick. _I didn't sleep as much as I should._ Sandor had brought her back to Baelish's house at four and it had been difficult for them to part again, once Rose had left her bedroom. _Especially after what happened._ She blushed. Even though she felt tired, her mind had kept rambling and at some point, she had clung to the illusion that staying awake would keep at bay the difficulties of her future. She wasn't sure she had slept more than three hours that night. _That morning._

The memories of his hands on her were still fresh and she would keep them vivid as long as she could. _He really wanted to please me._ _He was furious with me at first, he even shouted because he was so jealous... but in the end..._ Even in the confines of her mind, Sansa couldn't say the words. They finally came, with difficulty, as she bit her bottom lip. _In the end, his desire won. Or his love for me. Or perhaps both. I don't know and I don't care. It was mad and exhilarating. And he'll be here tomorrow night, he promised._

Peitho held out another hairpin, so that she could bring out the elegant line of her neck. Sansa wasn't quick enough to take it from her hand, for the pin fell on the carpet.

“I'm sorry,” the girl apologized, squatting to pick up the hairpin. “God, I can't see it.. Oh, right here.”

She spotted the dark, metallic glisten of the hairpin next to the chair leg, reached out to seize it but Peitho was quicker. The sole of her pink marabou slippers blocked the pin in the blink of an eye and for a second, Sansa only saw the long thin feathers adorning her heeled slippers, and the dark hairpin stuck between the sole and the odorous woolen carpet; still kneeling next to her chair, Sansa looked up at the madam, who glared at her.

“I know what you did, Sansa. It makes me sick.”

Swallowing hard, Sansa raised to her full height. Once again, the madam was quicker and she snatched the girl's wrist.

“You little bitch! Andrei told me everything!”

Sansa's first reaction was to give in to guilt and to confess that yes, she had betrayed the only customer she regarded as a friend; she nonetheless thought better of it, remembering she never knew where the madam's loyalty lay. _And she's unpredictable, so unpredictable._

She thus steeled herself and locked eyes with a furious Peitho.

“You're hurting me.”

The blond woman let go of her and pushed herself from her seat, regal despite the comical aspect of her unfinished hairdo.

“What did Andrei told you, exactly?” Sansa asked, massaging her sore wrist.

Peitho's grip had left red marks on it. Sansa never called him 'Andrei' neither during his visits, nor with Peitho: using his first name was just a way to provoke the madam, as he had once been her lover. It certainly hurt her, for the blond woman's upper lip quivered in anger.

"They searched his mansion, those people you lived with before I welcomed you under my roof. They were not looking for something, but they left evidence against him. The police was there at his arrival, after he left you!” Bulging-eyed, she jabbed a finger in Sansa's face to emphasize her words.

“What kind of evidence?” the girl managed to ask.

“Does it matter, Sansa? After what you've done...”

“What evidence?”

“Fake letters and stuff that proves Andrei is involved in... what's the word? Influence, influence-”

“Influence peddling.”

“That, and corruption too,” Peitho added.

The Lannisters had a strong sense of humor. Accusing a man who seemingly got in their way of influence peddling and corruption was pretty ironic, as influence and corruption were Joffrey's best weapons to win the election and to become the next governor of the state of New York. Sansa knew she looked defeated and Peitho probably noticed the mix of sadness and frustration on her face, though she refused to change her attitude toward her.

"So you made sure he would come back home late,” she said, without abandoning her reproachful tone. “You delayed him. You lied to him.”

After a few seconds, Sansa stopped contemplating the oriental patterns of the rug and looked up at the madam. “It seems like I'm not the only one who lied to him. I'm not proud of what I did, but at least, I did it because Mr. Baelish forced me to. I think Andrei can understand my reasons. I doubt he understood why you lied to him, embellishing your past and pretending to be-”

In the large bedroom, where the delicate scent and painted furniture reminded of a boudoir, the slap sounded like a whip lash. Sansa didn't flinch: she had mulled over these words for a long time, biding her time to tell Peitho she disapproved the way the woman had treated Berdokhovski. Her cool hand pressed on her cheek, she simply waited for the burning sensation to vanish.

“You don't know anything about me, little bitch!”

“That's part of the problem, Peitho. If you told people what really happened to you instead of lying about your achievements and your sufferings, they could sympathize with you.” She felt terribly awkward as the blond woman's narrowed eyes bored into hers.

“What I told you and Berdokhovski is beyond the point, dear. We're talking about you. So tell me: what did Baelish promised you in exchange?”

Sansa steeled herself before answering: “A pair of exquisite shoes. Except I refused his offer. So he changed his tune... Did you visit the other places he owns?” She paused, suddenly uncomfortable. “He took me to a brothel located at the edge of the city. A place very different from this one.”

Despite her unease whenever she thought back of the other brothel, she didn't miss the panic in Peitho's eyes. _She's been there. Perhaps it was another place, in another country, but she knows exactly what I'm talking about._

“He threatened me and he swore that Evie would end up there after the baby's birth if I didn't comply. What else could I do?”

Eyes glistening, Peitho whispered: “Why Evie?”

“Evie is my friend. I couldn't let her go to such a horrible place.”

“Friends don't exist in brothels,” Peitho stated. In her emotionless features, Sansa saw the cold, sensible woman she tried to be, because someone, a long time ago, had crushed her hopes and broken her heart, leaving only a fierce willpower and an all-consuming ambition.

“What about Edna?” Sansa asked, remembering she had once found the black-haired girl in Peitho's bed.

As if she feared eavesdroppers, the blond woman glanced around her shoulder at the bedroom door. “Petyr doesn't mind me sleeping with girls. I guess he even likes the idea. That being said...” She sighed deeply, closing her eyes for a heartbeat. “Edna could be my personal mistake.”

Even though she had been fooled by Peitho's lies earlier, Sansa wanted to believe at least this confession said in a whisper. The madam seemed so reluctant when she admitted she cared for Edna, that it could be true. _One truth in an ocean of lies._

“I won't tell anything about Edna,” Sansa reassured her, to break the heavy silence.

“Don't make promises you can't keep, child. I'm sure you never imagined you would help the Lannisters trap Berdokhovski, but you did it all the same. You could as well betray my little secret before long.” Her tone was more detached than willingly cruel.

Peitho glanced at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing table, straightened her back and smoothed her black skirt. When Peitho was preparing herself, Sansa mentally compared her to some feline, gracefully stretching its limbs and focusing on its prey.

“You'll probably say it's irrelevant, but anyway... Berdokhovski can afford a good lawyer. Evie wouldn't be able to exisit in the brothel I visited,” Sansa offered.

“I know.” Peitho sounded matter-of-fact.

“What do you want from me?” Sansa asked her, a hint of impertinence in her tone. “Apologies? A couple of days doing penance, locked in my room?” If Tyrion got through everything with his sense of provocation, maybe she should imitate him.

Peitho arched an eyebrow: “I wanted explanations. I got them. You owe an explanation to someone else, though.” 

* * *

Despite Sansa's efforts to draw out their radiant beauty, the red roses already withered in their crystal vase; changing their water twice a day didn't have the expected effect, neither adding droplets of bleach in the vase – a tip Rose had given her. The crimson petals dried out and they soon would be crumpled like worn linen. Their elegant scent had fainted and every time she moved past them, Sansa couldn't help thinking of her relationship with Berdokhovski, a relationship admittedly based on mutual misunderstandings, but also on respect. Withered, rotten, soon forgotten.

At least, he would forget her and move on, because he was experienced enough to know when it was time to leave behind someone who had wronged him. Even if she knew why she had taken that terrible decision, Sansa would never forgive herself what she had done, nor the consequences of her decision on his business and on his life. Brought to justice, his name dragged through the mud, Berdokhovski had every right to hate her. He distrusted the Lannisters, knew what kind of people they were but he had faith in Sansa. Worse still, he had repeatedly offered to help her and she had used his trust in her to fool him.

The red roses in their crystal vase were an odorous and attention-getting reproach, taunting Sansa whenever she saw a dry petal falling and landing on the table until Peitho knocked at her door. It was the mid-afternoon and even if they had quarreled the day before, the blond woman's oval face betrayed no sign of anger, but only the usual enthusiasm slightly toned-down by dignity.

“Dear Sansa, you look so grim! Would you be so kind as to come with me for a walk? I wanted to go to Madison Avenue and I thought we could indulge ourselves and have tea out there.”

Sansa looked back at her, open-mouthed. She didn't expect Peitho's offer but she sensed she'd better say yes and follow her, at least to dissipate the tension that lingered between them. Besides, any chance to escape Baelish's house, even for an hour or two, was welcome. When Sandor had said she needed fresh air, he had hit the nail on the head. Standing up and putting away her needlework, she asked Peitho if she could wait a minute so that she change clothes – the madam already wore an afternoon dress, an elegant coat and her hat.

Later on, when they both walked down the stairs, Viola shot them a furious look, but they ignored her. On the sidewalk, a taxi driver with a strong Irish accent was waiting for them and he opened the doors of his cab, gazing at them appreciatively. The ride in cab was rather pleasant, though Peitho's insistence on playing the part of the protective and cheerful friend made it a bit awkward. The blond woman seemed to believe she had to behave as a hybrid of patronizing elder sister and a confident.

“Look, Sansa, this is the place where I buy my hats. A very good milliner. If you ever need a hat that looks different from what most women wear, something special, that's the place where you should go... Oh, did you see that woman with the fur toque? She looks as if she was wearing a dead animal on her head...” She sounded almost hysterical.

“I thought fur toque hats were common in Russia,” Sansa commented coldly.

“Of course, they are. But this...”

Peitho sighed when the taxi driver pulled over in front of the Ritz's proud facade; whether she sighed in relief or disappointment, Sansa couldn't tell. She followed the madam out of the cab and inside the hotel's lobby, before going to the egg-shaped room where employees wearing uniforms served tea.

The muted and tasteful room was filled with people who could have inspired Edith Wharton: debutantes and mustached old men, straight-laced women in their forties and dreamy young men whose chain-smoking tendencies had already left stains on their manicured hands. The vision terrified Sansa though she couldn't explain why and she wondered why she had once wanted to be a part of this world. In her element, Peitho made her way to a table for two and glanced back at Sansa who still contemplated the assembly. The girl hurried toward her and they both sat down, after an employee took their coats.

“God, I like this place,” Peitho murmured with a large grin. “Why don't I come here more often?” She paused, her dark eyes scanning the room until she found what she wanted on one of the nearest tables. “Is this some blueberry layer cake? I think I'm going to have a slice of-”

“Why are we having tea at the Ritz? If you wanted to talk with me, we could have talked in Baelish's house!” Sansa observed, repressing a frown of exasperation.

When Peitho locked eyes with her, the childlike enthusiasm had disappeared. “I took you here, because someone insisted on talking to you.” She tilted her head, gauging Sansa's reaction.

“Who?”

Peitho rolled her eyes and crumpled the starched napkin in front of her in disbelief. “My goodness, Sansa. Do I have to tell you everything, to get things straight about everything? Can't you connect the dots, for once? Andrei asked me to take you here, so that you can explain yourself. He could have decided you were some obnoxious brat, but he didn't, because... Well, Andrei is Andrei.”

Confused, Sansa looked at the white starched tablecloth that contrasted with the dull tones of the silverware and the pastel blue china. Soon a waiter would bring them silvery teapots and creamers, filling the small table with the finest tea set one could find in New York; in any case, there wasn't enough space for three people around the table.

Peitho seemingly read in her thoughts, for she chuckled softly. “Do you think he would show up here, in the tea room, among people who work for the Lannisters or who would kill to be their guests at the Red Mansion?”

The quiet atmosphere of the tea room suddenly became ominous and Sansa felt goosebumps on her bare forearms: the exquisite smiles of the employees, the trifling chatter of their neighbors, the perfect little world inside the thick walls of the hotel were only illusions, created to deceive them all. Even the sounds filling the egg-shaped room became suspicious; the jingling of teaspoons against china, the muffled voices of the other customers, the piano playing somewhere... They lulled her, so that she believed she was safe. She repressed a shudder.

“He's waiting for you in one of the rooms, upstairs,” Peitho went on. “Room 211. You'll join him afterward. First of all, let's have tea. Then, you'll need the ladies' room and you'll get lost upstairs.”

Sansa's suspicious look made her shake her head with annoyance. “This is not a trap, Sansa.”

“The last time someone took me out for a ride, I ended up in that awful place-”

Peitho blinked. “I'm not Baelish, Sansa. I know I lied to you, but in this case, I'm not fooling you.”

A lump in her throat, Sansa wasn't able to eat the luscious blueberry cake the madam ordered and she settled for sipping her tea. For a few minutes, though they barely exchanged platitudes about the decoration and the subtle taste of the amber liquid in their china cups, they pretended to be two friends, happy to have tea together.

“Now,” Peitho said after Sansa dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “You should go, he's waiting for you.”

Slowly, Sansa stood up and crossed the room; instead of going to the restroom, she headed to the elevator, where the operator gave her a polite nod. Inside the elevator car, the roaring lion that represented the Ritz hotel forced a smile out of her. Even in this place, it looked as if she was under the influence of the Lannisters. The bell rang once, thus announcing she was about to reach her destination.

Her chest constricting, Sansa exited the elevator and strode the hallway, looking for the room where Berdokhovski was supposed to wait for her. _211, here we are._ Her hand hovered over the doorknob. What if all this was a cruel trick? What if someone else waited for her inside? She glanced around her shoulder, trying to estimate how long it would take her to get back to the elevator. _Just in case._

She took a sharp intake of breath and knocked at the door. At first, she didn't hear anything though she listened intently, then a masculine voice said 'Come in' and she recognized Berdokhovski's slight foreign accent.

With bated breath, she pushed the door open but she only came in when she spotted Berdokhovski's tall figure by the oversized window, against the light. The room was as elegant as requested in a place like the Ritz: displayed on a thick, soft rug, a pair of mahogany armchairs and their table invited the guests to sit for a while. On her left, between Berdokhovski and Sansa, there were twin beds, covered with the same delicate flowery bedspread.

“Sansa,” Berdokhovski said softly. In his pale blue eyes, she saw more grief than anger, but that detail didn't help her regain her composure when he crossed the room.

“Andrei, I'm sorry.” She had never used his first name in his presence and that time, it wasn't a silly game meant to annoy Peitho. She shivered as soon as he brushed her hand and took it in his. “I wish I could go back in time and change everything...” Her voice broke.

“Peitho mentioned threats. What happened exactly?”

 _He's not even furious,_ she mused, wiping the corner of her eyes. And Peitho tried to explain what I did, quite unexpectedly. She opened and closed her mouth once or twice, weighing her words, still fighting back tears.

“Baelish found my brother's letters. And he received orders from the Lannisters. I guess they wanted time to search your house.”

“To hide evidence against me before calling the police,” he corrected.

“I refused,” she said. “You have to believe me, I tried to resist. I was thinking of what the Lannisters could do to you, how they could crush you. Like they crushed my parents' life.”

The rest of her confession and the details of her visit to the other brothel Baelish owned at the edge of the town, Berdokhovski heard them, interrupted by her tears. At first, she stiffened when he tried to comfort her by running his hands down her arms and by pulling her close; she finally yielded, too weak to protest the moment he opened his arms for her.

“It's alright,” he said, cradling her like a little girl. “You faced a quandary. You did what you could. I understand now why you looked so fragile the other night.”

Fragile, she certainly was, as she wept against the rich woolen fabric of his three-piece suit. “You should leave New York,” she advised him, trying not to hiccup. “Before it's too late. You should sell what you can and just run away. They murdered my parents, they killed Robert Baratheon and probably more people. If you own a place far from New York, you should go there and keep a low profile.”

He abruptly pulled away, surprising her.

“I am an exile, Sansa. I already fled my country, I won't spend the rest of my life running away like a criminal. I'll stay in New York and I'll fight.”

Frowning, she looked up at him. His drawn features revealed his lack of sleep since the police's visit two days ago and he was so pale Sansa wondered if he had eaten something after leaving Baelish's house. For the first time since she had met him, she could tell he looked his age. In the golden light of the afternoon, he didn't look disheveled – his footman and his barber saw to that – but there was something about him that suggested he had not taken care of his appearance as much as usual. She noticed a small cut on his ordinarily smooth cheek, right on the jaw line, and on his temple, she thought there was less and less blond hair.

“My father wanted to fight them-” she began.

Suddenly, panic flooded her as she envisioned what the Lannisters could do to a man who was not as well-known as Eddard Stark – a discreet businessman who had stayed in the shadows so far and a foreigner, on top of that. _I don't want him to die._ Tears welled up in her eyes.

“I'm not your father, Sansa. Your father – may he rest in peace – was too loyal for his own good. One can't fight the Lannisters using law and justice: that's why Stannis Baratheon, despite his iron will and the countless agents he had under his command, didn't succeed when he tried to stop them in Blackwater Bay. You can't defeat them unless you use their weapons. That's what I'm going to do. A very talented crew of lawyers work for me so I won't give up.” He had spoken with conviction, emphasizing the last words.

“Fighting the Lannisters in courthouse is fine,” she warned him, “but it's not enough. It's your safety I worry about.”

“I won't give up on you, dear,” he replied, ignoring her remark. “I still want to help you and your friend, but you have to tell me the truth: is there someone else?” He paused, boring into her eyes as he waited for her to speak. “I think I already know the answer, Sansa. I won't shout at you.”

Suddenly, it became obvious she had to tell him the truth – she was bound to be honest with him – no matter his reaction.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she squeezed her eyes shut for a second, before answering: “There is someone, it's true. I met him when I first arrived in New York. I don't think you know him and I'm pretty sure you would disapprove-”

“I would disapprove of any man who wants you for himself.”

“He's a good person, though. He'll take me out of the brothel soon. I should have told you all this earlier, but I didn't find the strength-”

“Does he love you?” Berdokhovski asked Sansa, tension making his voice higher. She noticed how he clenched his jaw afterward.

“He does.”

Although Sandor Clegane was too uncomfortable with his own feelings to express them, she couldn't give him a more honest answer.

“I feel terribly awkward, Andrei,” she confessed.

There was a long, embarrassed silence as the news were still stuck in his throat, or so she told herself.

He finally cleared his throat. “What about your friend? The girl who's pregnant?”

 _The friend whom I betrayed you for._ “I don't know. I expected someone else's help, but I don't know yet if I can count on him. I don't know if he can do it alone.”

“Decision made, then. If you think you can stand my presence a few more times, I'll come to visit you again and you'll let me see this friend of yours so that we can find a solution together.”

Eyes widening, she gazed at his face: his blue eyes shone with determination.

“You didn't expect me to abandon you, dear?” he inquired, smiling.

Tenderly, he traced her cheekbone then her jawline, stopping next to the corner of her full lips. As he hesitated for a few heartbeats, his lips parted and she wondered about his next move. Catching her off-guard, he planted a kiss on her forehead; Sansa felt thankful for that. She took it as a proof he didn't blame everything on her.

“We'll soon leave one another, Sansa, but we can stay friends.”

 _Can we?_ There was another heavy silence as he took her hands in his, watching them, then bringing them to his lips. His gesture somewhat belied what he had just said and confused Sansa a bit more. His lips felt warm and soft on her skin, and for a moment, she decided to forget about the rest of the world, until this man who loved her dearly and who slightly bent forward to kiss her hands, had stopped his ministrations. _I certainly don't want to rebuff him._

His look was almost sheepish when he let go of her hands with reluctance and locked eyes with her. _I could have loved him, she thought. In other circumstances, I could have fallen in love with him and I would have been glad to share his life. I would have tried my best to make him happy, because he deserves it._

“Go now,” he said, letting out a deep sigh. “Peitho is waiting for you.”

“About Peitho,” she replied. “What did she tell you?”

“Oh, she was mad at you, at first. She even said things I wouldn't repeat. I had to calm her down, the morning after it all happened. Then she had this conversation with you and she called me back, saying I should talk to you.”

“I didn't expect that. It was... quite strange to come here with her to see you. To be honest, I never know how she's going to react.”

“I felt the same about Peitho when we were... close,” he confessed. “I didn't know where I stood with her. This woman is a mystery, Sansa.” He smiled encouragingly. “Go back to her now. I'll see you very soon.”

She nodded at that. Unbidden, her hand brushed his jawline, caressing the tiny cut she had noticed there earlier; surprised by her own boldness, she tried to hide her agitation behind words. “Be careful. They're dangerous people, Andrei. I'll pray for your safety.”

She turned to leave him, but he was quicker: he opened the door and inspected the hallway before letting her go. Sansa crossed the threshold and they exchanged another long look; she finally walked away and waited in front of the elevator door. Once downstairs, she went back to the small table where she had left Peitho. The madam, smiling as usual, didn't ask a single question about her encounter with Berdokhovski; instead, she poured some more tea in Sansa's cup.

A few minutes later, they paid the bill and walked out of the Ritz, enjoying the rather mild weather for most New Yorkers' standards. Though February was far from being over, they didn't felt the urge to shelter themselves in a shop. The wind wasn't that cold and Sansa, too glad to leave the deceitfully quiet atmosphere of the Ritz, found herself thinking that they had gotten rid of any kind of tension.

Visibly pleased to bring back together her former lover and the girl she had taken under her wing – or more mundanely, delighted by their tea-time at the Ritz – Peitho hailed a cab and laughed triumphantly when the first one she had spotted pulled over next to them. The taxi driver, a man in his mid-fifties, was in a good mood as well, and Sansa heard them joking after Peitho gave him the address of Baelish's house.

“So, tell me,” Peitho whispered to her, “is everything fine with Andrei?”

“He forgave me. I'm a bit worried about him, though. He should be more careful, you know why.”

Peitho didn't say anything and as the cab slowed down because of a traffic jam, she sensed the madam was dying to ask her a question. After a while, Peitho glanced at her and whispered: “But he's not coming back to see you, is he?”

“Yes he is. He'll most likely call you tonight or tomorrow.”

The blond woman still smiled, but Sansa told herself that smile was fake; she didn't understand what was wrong.

Eager to make up with her, she cleared her throat before saying: “I'm very grateful, Peitho. I appreciate what you did. I'll never forget it.”

As they were sitting side by side, Peitho's right hand rested on the leather covering the back seat. She had removed her goat-skin gloves, and the girl beside her could admire the sapphire ring she wore that day. A bit discomfited by her lack of reaction, Sansa put her hand on hers, squeezing it gently. To her great embarrassment, the madam sighed, her hand perfectly still under Sansa's fingers, then removed her hand at once and slightly turned her head to look through the car window. The roaring of the engine muffled Sansa's gasp of surprise, and as the cab overtook a delivery truck, tearing down the road, she remembered Peitho's words the day before. _Friends don't exist in brothels._

* * *

"Make an effort,” Sansa whispered, addressing Evie.

They were slowly going downstairs, Evie's arm tucked under Sansa's. Assuming she carried the baby to term, Evie would give birth in less than two weeks. Sansa thought it was more than time to worry about Evie's safety. Thus, she had decided to take the bull by the horns and she had forced Evie to leave the awful room where Baelish had sent her. As they reached the second floor and walked to Sansa's bedroom, the red-haired woman showed signs of nervousness; she yanked at Sansa's arm.

“What?” Sansa protested, feigning surprise even though she knew exactly where her friend's restlessness came from. “It's too late to step back now. Besides, he'll be there in a minute.”

Evie froze and looked at Sansa in the eyes. For the first time since they had met, she glared at the girl, but to her great displeasure, Sansa's only reaction was a mischievous chuckle. _Come on. She doesn't have anything to lose with him. I'm sure he would never hurt her. He's a good man, behind his bad manners and his outward gruffness._ With a devilish grin – she would afterward ask herself how long it had been since she had had fun like that, by friendly cornering someone – she opened her bedroom's door and stepped aside so that Evie could come in. Sansa made her sit down, smoothed Evie's skirt and pinched the young woman's pale cheeks with a playful smile.

“Don't forget your slate and the piece of chalk,” she told Evie, shoving said items in her hands.

Evie shook her head with resignation and she let out a deep sigh: Sansa didn't need an explanation to get her point, yet Evie began to write down a few words on the slate.

_'What if you're wrong and he's not interested in me?'_

“Didn't I ask you the same question about Sandor?” Sansa retorted.

Despite her certainty the man who was about to come in would help her friend, she couldn't say Evie's doubts were a big surprise. _When was the last time a man showed you he care? When was the last time a man did something for you without expecting you to undress in return?_ Evie's lack of self-confidence moved her and in the end, she gave a encouraging smile to her friend. Someone knocked at the door, making Evie jump. _It's time for me to leave._

Sansa walked to the door and opened it, while Evie still shook her head. Lothor Brune stood in the doorway, puzzled yet trying to keep up the appearances. Sansa took in the stubble on his cheeks, the fingers he curled and uncurled nervously. _Interesting._

“You said you needed to talk to me?” he rasped.

“I did. Please come in.” His jaw dropped open when he stepped in and spotted Evie who instantly squirmed under his gaze. “To be completely honest with you, my friend Evie is the one who wanted to talk to you,” Sansa cooed. “I'll be back in five minutes,” she added.

Before closing the door and giving them the privacy she thought these two needed, she locked eyes with Evie one last time.

“Make an effort,” she mouthed. Then she pushed the door closed and allowed herself to sigh with contentment. Playing Cupid elated her.

* * *

Sandor sneaked in the brothel that night, arriving in her bathroom earlier than she thought. She had had time to remove the make-up he loathed, but she still wore the dress that was her dancer's outfit: when she heard the soft rattle in the fire escape, it was too late to change clothes. Quite unexpectedly, he didn't make any comment on the length of her dress and kissed her on the spot, lifting her body so that she was flush against him once she had wrapped her arms around his neck. If she had had to describe his attitude at that moment, she would have said he looked starved, as if his short absence had deprived him from something now as vital as fresh air or food. When he let go of her, she found herself frustrated too and she wondered if that hunger she had seen in his stormy gray eyes was contagious.

“I missed you” were her first words. Sansa uttered them as she caught her breath, leaning on the washstand. Only a foot of space separated them.

“Missed the Little Bird as well,” he rasped.

There was a possessiveness in his tone that stirred something inside her. He clenched his jaw, gazing at her as if she was some prey he wanted to feed on. A bit disconcerted though, Sansa hesitated for a moment, ignoring what to do, then she decided their mutual attraction shouldn't outshine the rest. _We're not only a man and a woman obeying their primal instinct, are we?_

She told him about Berdokhovski who wasn’t mad at her and still wanted to help Evie. Sandor’s first reaction was to open his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but he gave up then shook his head with resignation. _I must tell you. I can’t lie to you again._ She also mentioned Lothor Brune and told him how she hoped Baelish’s employee could rescue Evie. At that, Sandor snorted and seemingly relaxed.

“There's something I want to show you. In the bedroom. Please follow me.”

As usual, only the bedside lamp lit up the space around the four-poster bed; Sandor blocked the door with a chair, then threw his coat on the console table and made sure the tiny hole in the wall was covered. In the meantime, Sansa walked to the table the phonograph rested upon and she retrieved the Luger from the drawer.

Since the day he had given her the weapon, she wrapped it in a towel and she kept the bullets separately. Freeing the gun from its towel, she took it in her hands, admiring its intriguing shape. _Sandor was right when he said Germans arms manufacturers had a taste for weird-looking weapons._ Slowly, she began to disassemble the gun. She had been disassembling and reassembling it for a while, hoping he would stop seeing her like a completely useless little girl; his approving nod of the head was her best reward. As small parts of the Luger fall off in her hand, she put them on the table, next to the phonograph. In the meantime, Sandor silently came closer and leaned against one of the bed's columns to watch her.

“It isn't loaded, I promise,” she told him.

What she was doing was at odds with the girl her parents had raised. Back in Saint-Paul, their relatives sang her praises because she was sweet and soft-spoken, sensible and well-behaved; because in addition to her musical skills, she mastered all kind of needlework. The office and the gun room where her father stored hunting rifles were Robb's territory whereas she went back and forth between the music room and the spot near the great fireplace where her mother and herself embroidered handkerchiefs and aprons. _Life was quite simple at that time. I knew where I belong, even if I wasn't satisfied to live in Saint-Paul._ Now she found herself doing unacceptable things for a young lady and disassembling guns to impress the man who gazed at her with a smirk.

All of a sudden, Sandor closed the distance between them and positioned himself right behind her.

“What are you doing?” she asked as his hands found their place on her hips. His body was flush to hers.

“Nothing,” he rasped in her ear. “Just making sure you do it properly.” His gravelly voice had the expected effect on her: she repressed a laugh, thinking back on the notion that their desire shouldn't outshine the rest of relationship. _Nonsense. I can't help imagining what we're going to do in a short while, and that's for the best._

“Of course I do it properly. I have a very good teacher,” she countered mischievously.

“Oh really?”

Tightening his grip on her, he began to kiss the crown of her head then her temple; as he towered above her, she guessed he was glancing down at her cleavage. His nose and lips brushed her cheeks again. His ragged breath thrilled Sansa, distracting her with more efficiency than his innuendos. She nonetheless kept disassembling the Luger, until she made an awkward move and cut herself with the magazine. Gasping, she looked at the droplets of blood at the juncture between her thumb and palm. _I fancied myself like a fearless girl handling weapons to impress Sandor and now I'm just ridiculous._

“It's alright,” he said, taking her hand in his and bringing it to his mouth, before sucking on the cut. His chapped lips kissed her skin almost delicately; soon, a tickling sensation replaced the dull sting.

She couldn't help giggling. “You're so predictable, sometimes!”

“Predictable?” he growled, his nose grazing her temple then her ear lobe. “You think I'm predictable, girl?” His tone became more threatening – and more thrilling, she told herself – with each passing second.

He took the pieces of the Luger from her hands, collected those on the table and put them all in the towel, he then hastily shoved in the drawer. When he was done, he directed his attention on her hips again. His right hand slipped down until he reached the hem of her dress and fisted the fabric. Soon she felt his fingers brushing the top of her silk stockings and higher, the bare skin of her thighs. She repressed a moan.

“Am I being predictable now?”

"I thought- I thought we didn't belong to that kind of people who can't help... tearing off their clothes as soon as they are together,” she trailed off, thrilled by his attitude yet trying to think straight.

The hitched up skirt of her dress fell in place at once and he removed his hand with a frustrated sigh. Sansa turned around to face him, surprised by his obedience; never in a thousand years would have she thought she had that power on him.

“I thought we didn't belong to that kind of people,” she said, locking eyes with him and measuring how disappointed yet submissive he was. “I was wrong.”

With unhurried movements, her hands traveled down his chest and stopped on the first button of his waistcoat. By a quick glance, she asked for his approval. She noticed how the second button was almost undone, ready to fall, yet she went on with the third and last one. _Some stitches would do no harm... But later._

Sandor drew in a breath. “There are things I won't do to you for now. Don't want you to get pregnant as long as we don't know when we'll leave New York. But don't fucking expect me to behave like a monk, girl.”

“I'm not asking you to behave like a monk. Far from it.” Her eyes had widened slightly under his stare and she knew a deep blush tinted her cheeks.

“On the bed, then,” he rasped. 

* * *

Their caresses had been as feverish as those they had exchanged on the boat, the only difference being is that he silenced her with a kiss when she began to moan then muffled her whimpering by applying his large hand on her mouth. That gesture, as shocking as it might be, had only increased the pleasure she had felt. After she had repaid him the favor, Sandor, exhausted but seemingly happy, had quickly sunk into sleep.

Once they had had their fill of kissing and touching, he had let Sansa change herself in the bathroom where she had tossed her dress and her underwear on the tiled floor before slipping into a nightgown. He already dozed when she had come back from the bathroom, though he kept talking to her. His slurred speech had made her laugh softly and she had finally watched him falling asleep, in the dim light of the bedside lamp. Said bedside lamp was on his side, so she couldn't switch it off without risking to disturb his sleep, besides, she had something else in mind. He was lying on his back, his bare forearm resting on his head and hiding his eyes.

 _A very childlike pose,_ she mused with tenderness, observing the hairy forearm, the wrist, the large hand and these long fingers that had caressed her a while ago and now were half-curled, showing how relaxed he was in her presence. The sight of this strong, sullen and reckless man falling asleep and now breathing steadily before her moved her deeply, yet she couldn't fathom why this non-event became so important. When he allowed her to see him in this pose, to take in his serene expression as his chest slowly rose and fell, he was giving her something priceless.

She let out a deep sigh, pushed the covers and sat up gingerly, afraid to awake him. Sandor would have a surprise, come the morning, when he would put on his waistcoat. She walked around the bed, picked up the waistcoat he had discarded earlier and she settled herself in the chair in front of her desk. Her sewing basket was there, and she easily found a needle and some gray thread to resew the button that nearly hanged loose.

Glancing back around her shoulder, she made sure her companion was still asleep, then she noticed something that slipped out of his pocket and her heart skipped a beat: she recognized the coral pink ribbon she had lost, weeks ago. _The night I came in here with my red cloak, disguised as Little Red Riding Hood. The night I thought he had kissed me._ She remembered him lying in bed next to her, undoing the ribbon at the end of her long braid – it was before she had her hair cut – then smelling her locks. _I woke up and the ribbon was gone. I called myself an idiot because I believed for a second he could have taken it. And yet, that's the truth._

Another glance at Sandor confirmed he was asleep; she mindlessly kept the ribbon in her left hand, while resewing the button. It felt strange to see to his clothing: Sansa imagined how he would gruffly thank her for that, at dawn, before sneaking out of the brothel, and she smiled. Once the needlework was done, she cut the thread with her small sewing scissors. Though she carefully put them back on the desk without hitting the wooden surface with the scissors, she heard Sandor clear his throat behind her and she realized he was awake.

“What are you doing girl?” he said in a whisper.

She turned to face him and she took in his disheveled appearance as he sat up then pushed himself from the bed – naked to the waist, his pants on but the suspenders hanging loose on his sides, barefoot. _I'm sure I've never seen someone with bigger feet._ “Some needlework,” she replied, her apologetic tone forcing a devilish smile out of him.

Before she could protest, he had closed the distance between them and scooped her. He lifted Sansa with a grunt and carried her to the bed. “Forget about your damn needlework, girl. When we're together, you belong here, with me,” he rasped.

He almost dumped her on the mattress and she repressed a squeal of surprise, knowing that Peitho slept next door. After she slipped under the covers, Sandor lied down and rolled on his side so that he could look at her. His eyes roamed on her upper body, eliciting goosebumps on her skin. _This is pure madness. I can't imagine what it's going to be like the day I'm his._

“I'm not kidding, Little Bird. You don't try to escape my arms. What do you think you were doing out there?”

She triumphantly opened her hand and showed him the pink ribbon. “I found this in your pocket,” she countered.

“It's mine,” he answered in the most serious manner. His long fingers wrapped her hand as if it was Sansa who had stolen something from him.

“Oh really? You tie your hair with it?” She chuckled, amazed by his nerve.

“You don't need ribbons to tie your hair, now,” he commented, tousling her bobbed hair. “I need something to play with when I miss my Little Bird at night. Fuck, Sansa, you should look at yourself. You look like you were picturing me holding that damn ribbon and sucking my thumb before going to sleep.”

Sansa noticed how the ribbon looked worn, how the color had faded and her confusion increased slowly. _God, I shouldn't have asked._

Her cheeks grew hot and her voice was but a whisper when she said: “I don't exactly picture you sucking your thumb.”

The pressure of his hand on hers became lesser and lesser, as he repressed a cruel laugh. “It's true I found something else to suck, lately.” His look became insistent and he began to trace the neckline of her nightgown. “You have a dirty mind, Sansa Stark.”

She let out an indignant sigh but he didn't gave her time to dwell on the lewd jape her remark had inspired him.

“You didn't answer my question, little girl,” he said, uncurling her fingers one after the other, until the pink ribbon fell in his own hand. “What were you doing?”

Distracted by his lustful look, her chest heaving, Sansa didn't reply at first. “I was- I was resewing that button on your waistcoat."

“Oh, the perfect little lady, disturbed in her sleep because a button hangs loose!” he mocked her.

“I wasn't disturbed. I just want to take care of you.”

Silence spread, allowing her to gaze at him and to see the transient emotions in his gray eyes: astonishment, disbelief, love and finally desire and mischief in equal parts.

“There's more than one way to take care of me: don't you know that, Little Bird?” 

* * *

After days of sunny, uncommonly warm weather for that season, an icy rain fell on New York. Petyr Baelish felt raindrops slip under his collar when he exited the Red Mansion and it felt like icicles going down his spine. He popped up the collar of his coat, but the harm had been done. Despite the large black umbrella the chauffeur held above his head, more cold drops fell on the back of his head and he repressed an angry shiver. If the Lannisters were good enough to let Jim park the limousine behind the Mansion – where the family parked their cars – he could wait for the chauffeur protected by the archway at the back of the building. It made a huge difference when the weather was either cold or rainy, yet the Lannisters had refused him this privilege, and like all their visitors, he was forced to cross the front yard under the rain. Their inability to show the slightest bit of kindness or respect to their guests and their associates would always surprise him.

He shook his head as if he wanted to get rid of that idea. _I shouldn't be astonished after all these years: it's just a friendly reminder that we're not Lannisters, so we don't deserve any kind of favor._ Jim opened the car door for him and Petyr got in wordlessly. The pouring rain drummed against the car roof, filling the passenger compartment with an even, soothing noise and Petyr slowly settled back in the limousine. His day was done and it was already late, on the evidence of the darkness surrounding the car. When the chauffeur started the engine and put into first gear, his head was titled back, resting on the back of the seat, and he felt every gravel of the front yard, before they reached the gate that separated the Lannisters from the rest of the world. _Flamboyant,_ he thought, swiveling his head to look at the wrought iron arabesques through the car window. _Just like them._

The limousine moved into the street and the florid gate disappeared in the night. Years ago, the young Petyr who lived in old Hoster Tully's shadow and coveted his elder daughter Catelyn, was impressed by wrought iron gates, never-ending mahogany tables and diamonds that dangled from rich women's earlobes. He now still enjoyed the material assets he possessed, thanks to the fortune he had quickly made, but he knew how these things could deceive a man. They were good as long as one used them to get what he wanted: lavish suppers were perfect to win his peers' trust. If a gastronomic dinner wasn't enough, the services of one of his girls easily bribed his relations; as for the girls, they were mesmerized by clothes and jewels.

Observing the passers-by through the window, Petyr softly chuckled at that notion. Inadvertently, he had begun to divide girls into groups, in accordance with the gifts that were necessary to get what he wanted them to do. Viola, for instance, was so easy to bribe it wasn't even fun. The way Viola had tried to seduce him, coming to him night after night, suggesting sexual practices that bordered on perversion according to Petyr, fascinated him, and months after, this memory still made him laugh. Under her over-confident appearance, Viola was incredibly naïve; she thought her good looks enabled her to demand anything, if only she had spread her legs for him.

As a matter of fact, she didn't know how to lure a man before giving herself to him and she unwisely sold off what she had. Viola had dropped in his esteem as soon as he had noticed her lack of perspective – her lack of commonsense, actually. Girls like Viola would sell their soul to the devil for a petty pair of earrings or a cheap dress. Many girls reacted like her, even in the gorgeous four-story house located near Gramercy Park people referred to as 'Baelish's house'.

Some, like little Meg, were a bit more cunning and resisted a while before yielding when he offered them something that was exceptional in their eyes. The day she had seen the evening dress – a dress coming from a department store, not from the shop of some _'couturier'_ as Peitho called these people, with a hint of snobbery, but a girl who had hardly escaped the gutter couldn't make the difference – Meg's eyes had widened in disbelief, thus announcing she would agree to everything.

Others weren't interested in earthly goods, like Evie, and Baelish wondered what a woman who refused to abort was doing in a brothel. _Miscast. This one should have taken the vows instead._ And then, there were women who needed more than a dress to obey his orders.

If he enjoyed Peitho's company now, it was probably because he has spent a lot of time and money to seduce her, to make sure she would stay with him, in his house. He really wanted her to rule his brothel when he wasn't there: the first time they had met, beyond her intelligence and her class, her self-confidence and her ambition had stunned him. Petyr had always thought no one could outmatch him, as far as lust for power was concerned, so that his meeting with an exquisite woman from Ukraine whose dark eyes claimed she wanted everything had been both a cold shower and a revelation. _My soul mate, so to speak._

When he had left her at the end of their first meeting, the idea he needed to possess her had haunted him for days. In a way, winning her heart – if Peitho ever had a heart – had been the most exciting moment of his life. She had despised him, at first – she had a knack to find out who was born with a silver spoon in their mouth and who wasn't – she had laughed at his first presents, thus increasing his desire to have her for himself. She had raised an eyebrow on the necklace he had given her, once, suggesting it might not come from the jeweler whose name was written on the box.

He seldom, if ever had expended as much energy to seduce a woman; he became extravagant, but fortunately, he already had good financial backing at that time. It was when he was ready to throw in the towel that she had let him know she was interested. A mere flutter of lashes sealed the deal and there she was, leading him to the bed and undoing her dress, so that he could admire her beauty and find another reason to put her on a pedestal.

The day she had yielded, Peitho had lost a part of her attraction – a small part, but a part nonetheless. He still enjoyed being with her, he was proud to strut about with a woman like her, even if some of the magic had vanished. In his eyes, her long, fierce resistance bestowed prestige upon the woman. The trouble he had given himself to seduce Peitho made her different from the others, a black diamond – like the ring he had offered her, because the sparkle of the gem reminded him of her eyes – among paste jewelery.

Peitho was his most precious trophy until he met Sansa Stark. There was something sentimental – and unhealthy, he admitted it now – in the way the girl haunted his thoughts. Peitho was the perfect courtesan, a goddess of love made flesh, but Sansa was different. Her resemblance with Catelyn was amazing and the fact that she had come in his life at the right moment, when he wasn't the scrawny little boy who owned nothing except his ambition but a rich, influential man, made her even more attractive. Sansa was a gift from heaven: life has been rather tough thus far, and it looked as if the girl was a compensation for all his previous sufferings, a do-over.

In addition to those qualities, Sansa turned out to be the best asset of Baelish's house. Each girl had a talent or a specificity that made her useful: every one of them attracted a certain type of men. Unbeknownst to her, Sansa broke the mold by offering a combination of innocence and enticement. She appealed to men, whether they liked bold or timid girls, she seduced those who wanted to be heroes but were unable to admit it – like Berdokhovski or Tyrion Lannister. The first time a man crossed the threshold of Baelish's house to see one of the shows they offered, he expected to see the girls' nipples; the next time, he came back for Sansa Stark.

 _Does she have a customer tonight?_ he mused, crossing his legs and admiring the shiny surface of his spectator shoes whenever the street lamps cast their artificial, crude light in the passenger compartment. More often than not, he distractedly flipped through the book where Peitho wrote the customers' names, checking who had been visiting the girls, and he was astonished by Sansa's success. She didn't do much – Petyr shook his head when he remembered the way he had had to force her to wear more revealing dresses – but what she offered once her bedroom door was closed, was enough to make them come back week after week.

 _I should have asked for an hour with her, too._ Seat back in the large armchair he had chosen himself and just look at her while she slowly swayed her hips... He let out a deep sigh as his manhood twitched in his pants. He had seen her dancing already, but he was surrounded by customers during the shows or by the other girls, every time he had a look at the rehearsal. And there was Peitho. Peitho wasn't a fool, she knew he was attracted by Sansa and she put up with his sidelong glances because she was sure he preferred the prospect of selling the girl's maidenhood to the satisfaction of his carnal desires. It was true, yet Petyr's resolution had been questioned lately.

The day Sansa had arrived in his house, he already knew he wanted the girl and he clang to the idea time would fly until her birthday. Once her maidenhood would be sold, he would claim her and Catelyn's daughter wouldn't have much choice. _March twenty-fifth._ It seemed that winter dragged on now, and his want for her only increased with each passing week. _Just a silly impression, because there are so many men in the wings, ready to buy whatever I'm going to sell._

If Peitho didn't fit any group – neither the stupid girls who sell off themselves, like Viola, nor the smarter bunch of girls who tried to get whatever clothes or jewels they craved for, like Meg – Sansa's attitude had nothing to do with the madam's. Though she loved elegant shoes – a weakness he had become aware of after her arrival in New York – she wasn't the easily swayed girl he had met two years ago. Was she already jaded when he offered her a dress or a pair of shoes because she wanted for nothing during her childhood? Did she have scruples – a character trait inherited from the dull Eddard Stark – leading her to refuse his gifts when he demanded something at odds with her beloved father's morals?

Either way, he had had to threaten her and to use her inexplicable friendship with Evie to make sure she would delay Berdokhovski. _You didn't give me a choice, sweetheart. By rejecting my presents, you chose the hard way._

On his right, the car window was covered with condensation. Removing his glove, Petyr wiped it away, hoping he could have a look at the street. Though street lamps and neon signs illuminated the avenue, it was all a blur; the pouring rain distorted the figures of the few reckless people who still ventured out and the raindrops dripping along the car window misshaped the rest. He sighed with contained exasperation.

Thus, because she refused to obey, he had taken Sansa to a place little doves like her should never see. He had threatened her, made her cry and in the end, although he hated the squalid atmosphere of the brothel he owned outside New York, his desire for her had reached new heights when he had seen her lost in the petty room, afraid and weeping, resisting him almost until the end. Now he knew he liked it when she resisted and that discovery in itself was arousing.

Jealousy had triggered something inside him as well. He remembered the night he had discovered her with Sandor Clegane, on her balcony. That half-wit had his hands on his precious Sansa, he fondled her... and though she had protested – Petyr was sure she had protested, a girl like her couldn't let him touch her that way – for a heartbeat he had wondered if she didn't like what this brute was doing. The Hound's behavior aroused his suspicion: men like him didn't go to brothels to watch dainty little girls dancing and singing. Sansa was much too expensive for him, yet he kept coming – though his visits had become scarce lately.

At some point, he had even thought the Hound was Meryn Trant's murderer. If Sansa had ordered him to kill the moron who had tried to rape her, it sounded possible. On the condition that she could control a beast like Clegane. There had been another incident that had given him a clue: during one of the last shows, an old officer had been a bit audacious with Sansa and Clegane had overreacted, shooting a furious glare at the old fool, demanding that he, Petyr Baelish, personally did something about it. That night, after watching the seething rage in the Hound's eyes, Petyr had told himself that, if anything happened to the drunk fogy, Clegane would be the one to blame for his death and his own theory about Meryn Trant's murder might be right. However, Jaime Lannister had confirmed the old officer was alive and kicking, four days later, thus ruining his hope to see the Hound behind bars. _It was a silly idea, all things considered: coming from Clegane, a fit of rage is very likely but erasing traces of his guilt... Even the amateur work of whoever killed Meryn Trant is too sophisticated for him._

The more he thought about it, the less he believed in Clegane's guilt. Sansa was most likely afraid of the man and somehow Petyr understood her unease: if Joffrey's henchman came to visit her again and again, he certainly took a perverse pleasure in frightening the poor girl. The Hound probably wished he could sully a heavenly creature like Sansa Stark and Petyr easily pictured him stealing from his employers or racketeering more people than necessary to get money so that he could spend a whole night with the girl, once she would be a whore.

He cringed at the thought, his eyes narrowing and his lips twisting in disgust. _Poor little Sansa. If it happens, I'll shower her with gifts or I'll take her out of New York for a day or two, to cheer her up. Who knows what can happen, once in the Hamptons?_ He smiled at the prospect. The sweet Sansa, hurt and broken by the Hound, suddenly leaving the brothel for a day or two... He would comfort her, at least make an effort to sound genuinely saddened by her misfortunes. He would offer her a shoulder to cry on... After all, Lysa Tully, Catelyn's younger sister, had ended up in his bed because she wanted to comfort him after Catelyn had broken his heart. Maybe things could work the other way around.

The limousine slowed down and Petyr guessed they had reached their destination: his bachelor apartment in Murray Hill. Once or twice a week, he enjoyed being alone – especially after a day spent in Joffrey Baratheon's company – and the place was cozy enough to make him forget about the Lannisters' shortcomings. Jim pulled over and got out of the car, his head shielded by his dark gray driver's cap. The chauffeur walked around the limousine, shoulders hunched up because of the wind, then he opened the car door for Petyr. The rain had stopped, Petyr noticed with relief. The two men exchanged a few words, to agree on the morning after's schedule, then Jim disappeared with the limousine.

Watching the facade of the building he lived in and distractedly gazing at the third floor where his apartment was located, Petyr stretched his limbs: after ten hours spent on the ostentatious yet uncomfortable seats of the Red Mansion, his back was sore. _I should take a walk around the block._ He stifled a yawn and turned his back to the entrance door leading to his apartment. His pace was slow and despite some cold gusts of wind, he enjoyed the calm after the downpour; water gurgled down the gutter, and on the wet sidewalk, his footsteps made an uncommon squelch.

The inhabitants had locked themselves in their houses, it seemed, and though cars moved past him from time to time, Petyr felt like he had the street for himself. Far from hating this sensation of loneliness, he enjoyed it; he couldn't think about the moves he planned to do when he was in the Red Mansion or in the four-story house near Gramercy Park. There were too many people out there, demanding his attention or his favors. Sometimes, he wondered what he loathed most: a wealthy family well-aware of its influence and thus taking advantage of its power or a bunch of harebrained girls who tended to be drama queens whenever they quarreled. So far, Peitho's presence – and now Sansa's – had tipped the scales in the girls' favor. _But they're so unpredictable…_

Someone walked behind him at some distance, yet Petyr felt the urge to turn around and to cast a glance at the unknown man. In the darkness, he only made out a tall silhouette who stopped still. Though he narrowed his gaze he couldn't see much of him; vaguely ill-at-ease, he decided to resume his stroll. Petyr walked for a half a minute or so, trying to focus on the financial aspects of Joffrey's campaign. The footsteps echoing somewhere behind still prevented him to think straight. Irritated, he glanced around his shoulder: the tall figure was still behind him and like the first time, the man froze at once. _What is it? What does he want with me?_

As they had both stopped mid-stride, Petyr suddenly thought of the game he was playing with the Tully sisters, when they were just six or seven. _Statues. Kids call that game 'Green Light, Red Light' nowadays._ Petyr had seen a small group of children playing that game the other day and although the words were different, the sight of little boys and girls stopping at once had reminded him of his childhood. He could still hear Lysa's shrill voice as they froze, unsteady on their feet. _Green Light, Red Light!_ He would always let Catelyn win, to Lysa's great displeasure. _Green Light, Red Light!_

Petyr stared at the man for a while, then turned his back to him: that was when he noticed he was only half-way. Whether he retraced his steps or he went on, the distance to his apartment was the same. Swallowing hard, he sped up. _Don't be ridiculous. This is just a joker who enjoys infuriating the good people. It is not so far..._

His breathing became more rapid and despite the cold temperatures, beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Petyr was almost running now: once he had reached the corner of the street, he hurried himself to the entrance door of his building and it was only after he climbed the stairs leading to the main door that he dared glance behind him. The dark street was empty and under the electric light, the doorman looked at him with widening eyes. He could have called himself a fool, but instead, he jabbed a finger at the young doorman.

“You!” he hissed. “Did you notice someone who was there, lurking?”

The young man, whose chubby face and bovine gaze instantly irritated Petyr, shook his head slowly. “Sir, I can assure you-”

“Keep an eye open for a change, will you?” he commanded the doorman with a shrug and he crossed the threshold hastily.

Never had he been so impatient that the elevator's doors opened on the third floor. His foot beating time while inside the elevator shaft, he tried to catch his breath after what was supposed to be a soothing walk around the block. Once upstairs, he shakily opened the door of his apartment, somewhat relaxing at the familiar sight of the rare etchings on the entrance wall. Petyr carefully closed the door, then crossed the apartment to reach one of the windows that looked out onto the street.

At first, he didn't see anything special in the darkness, then he clenched his jaw when spotting a silhouette at the corner of the street. Whoever it was, the man stood far from the street lamps, so that his face was invisible in the night, but Petyr could have sworn it, the man was looking in his direction.

He was observing him.


	20. Kermes By The Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The young policeman who kept a close eye on them seemed more nervous with each passing second.  
> “You look bored,” Lois whispered, pouting.  
> “Are you going to handcuff me?” her sister asked, brushing the man's middle in the most suggestive way.  
> “I think I'd like handcuffs,” Lois confessed, addressing Dorothy. “Being unable to move and everything... Feeling helpless... Have you ever been handcuffed, Dotty?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, Underthenorthernlights edited this chapter and made it readable... Thanks to her!

The rehearsal was as crazy as it usually was in Baelish's house: the girls cackled like a bunch of hens, the musicians lost their patience and Edna palm-faced for the tenth time the moment Viola crossed the stage behind the dancers, instead of walking around and using the wings. Incensed by the girl's behavior, Edna erupted.

“What's wrong with you, Viola? Nobody's home?” Edna pointed her forefinger at her head with an exaggerated grin. The music stopped instantly.

“Oh, dry up!” Viola protested, shoving one of the dancers to come to the forestage. “Why do you shout at me in the first place? Dorothy did the same five minutes ago and-”

Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose and stopped listening to the girls' quarrel. Wearing her belly dancer's costume, she was facing the stage, thus having a ringside seat to their argument and the chaos onstage. On her left, Chester, the piano player, mirrored her expression and let out a deep sigh. When she noticed it, Sansa repressed a nervous chuckle and walked to him.

“I'm sorry,” she said, opening her arms in a gesture of despondency.

The man tilted his head back with another sigh, then locked eyes with her. “Oh, don't be. You're the only one who knows her lyrics and who hits the ground running. Don't blame yourself, girl.”

The trumpet player put down his instrument on the piano's wooden body and tutted, slowly shaking his head. He gave Sansa a quizzical look. “How do you put up with these mad girls?”

She shrugged, wondering if someone had heard his cruel remark. “I don't know. I guess I don't have much choice.”

Chester remained silent while the drama went on a few yards away; Sansa noticed how the piano player gazed at her, letting his dark eyes roam over her body. _And his appreciative look is not for the shimmering costume I wear._ She suddenly blushed: it was exactly the kind of mental note she imagined Edna made whenever men observed her slim figure. She stared back at him. The piano player had donned a white shirt which the sleeves were rolled up, thus showing the mocha colored skin of his bare forearms.

He smiled smugly. “You must have a day off, sometimes, right?” he told Sansa.

Sansa was about to mumble incoherent words and already rued her reddening cheeks, but the trumpet player forestalled her. “Don't do that, Chess. Trust me. She's not for the ones like us.” He patted his friend's shoulder and turned his freckled face to Sansa. “No offense, girl. Mr Baelish got things perfectly straight.”

“No offense taken,” she replied, a wan smile on her lips, trying to keep at bay why Baelish had had to lecture the musicians about her status in the brothel.

Sansa felt her fingers curl in balled fists at the thought of what Marillion could have done to her. The red-haired trumpet player had most likely noticed her unease, for he tried to cheer her up.

“Don't worry. Our good old Chester won't bother you again, or I'll take care of him.”

With that, he tousled Chester's hair. The piano player protested, muttered expletives, then he held up his hands with a discomfited smile.

“See, Sansa? Musicians have a dog's life!”

_A dog's life._ He probably didn't understand why Sansa was smiling as if only she knew why his remark was so funny. No more shouting came from the forestage: they all came to the conclusion the fight between Viola and Edna was over when the dark-haired, buxom girl stormed out, shoving the drummer.

“Hey you!” the man called, exasperated by her manners and the long wait. “You could say 'Sorry'.”

Viola had already moved past him, but she stopped mid-stride and turned around. She observed the musicians forced to inactivity and blaming her for the chaotic rehearsal then she spotted Sansa.

“Flirting with the musicians, Miss Sansa?” she taunted.

“Don't assume everybody is in the same boat,” Sansa retorted, cut to the quick. “A girl who talks with a man doesn't necessarily plan to end up in his bed. In case you didn't pay attention, we're quite different, you and I.”

Viola's lips opened to form an 'O' while the musicians behind Sansa roared with laughter – although Chester's laugh sounded a bit fake. Sansa swallowed hard after noticing how Viola's red face exuded anger. _If she throws herself on me, will they help-_

“Viola!” Peitho's voice was hardly recognizable when she shouted. “Upstairs, now!”

The madam stood on the other end of the meeting hall, arms folded. Sansa guessed she had just arrived.

“Watch yourself!” Viola warned Sansa before walking away.

_She always threatens, but she doesn't bite,_ Sansa mused, her eyes following Viola's figure crossing the large room. They all resumed their activities, the band playing again the oriental tune of _'Snake hips'_ while the girls onstage wriggled. Sansa watched them distractedly until Edna motioned the girl towards her with an incline of her head. On the evidence of her wrinkled nose, Edna wasn't convinced by the dancers' performance.

“Peitho wants to listen to that new song,” she told Sansa with a sigh. “She wants to know what you'll wear on stage, so go change yourself, smile pretty and please cause a sensation. This rehearsal is the worst we had since we began.”

Sansa nodded curtly, went upstairs and donned one of her new dresses. She was glad to swap her belly dancer's costume for something a tad less revealing and she started humming the new song she had worked on while going back to the meeting hall. After three attempts – less than satisfactory, it seemed – the dancers left the stage and Edna called. “Everybody loves my baby! Sansa!”

Sansa stopped by the musicians to exchange a few words with them, before going to the microphone standing a few feet away from them. They had already played that song with Sansa and they had agreed on one thing: the song was great to dance to. The band still wondered if Sansa could keep the rhythm going, assuming they sped up the tempo.

“That silvery rag, really?” Peitho inquired, gesturing to the shimmering dress Sansa wore. The way the madam puckered up wasn't a good sign.

“Is it important?”

“Darling Sansa, you know it is.” Peitho sounded weary.

“You choose the dress I'll wear onstage, if you want,” Sansa offered, “but listen to the song and tell me what you think about it.”

In the meantime, Edna shushed the girls who took a breather; on Sansa's right, the trumpet player nodded to her then he began to play, before the rest of the band joined him. The spirited rhythm made her sway her hips instantly and she noticed that Edna seemed a bit more relaxed. At the end of the intro, Sansa started singing, smiling with self-confidence.

_“Everybody loves my baby_

_But my baby don't love nobody but me_

_Nobody but me"_

She cast a glance at the band and saw Chester leaning over the keyboard, visibly delighted. Spencer Williams' new song was lively and behind its rather simple tune, it encouraged the musicians to speed up the rhythm; she could see how Chester and the others were itching to go faster, if possible. The piano player raised his eyes, seeking Sansa's approval and when she smiled, he blinked at her with a large grin. Sansa went on, her voice slightly deeper than usual.

_"I'm his sweet Judy_

_And he is my loving man!_

_No time to do his duty_

_Loves me like no other can!"_

_God, this is one of the only things that I like here._ The trumpet player visibly had a field day, on the evidence of his half-closed eyelids, and Sansa could have sworn he was improvising. By a silent agreement, the others suddenly seemed to play softly. The music, combined to the sensation the band was having as much fun as she, made Sansa giddy. For once, she felt happy and careless. She began to dance as the musicians went wild; in front of her, Edna was wriggling on her seat while Lois and Dorothy kicked up their heels. Soon, most of the girls pushed themselves from their seats to follow suit.

_“Now when my baby kisses me_

_Upon my rosy cheeks -_

_I just let those kisses be_

_Don't wash my face for weeks!"_

Peitho stood in a corner and though she didn't share the girls' enthusiasm, Sansa knew she would compliment her later for what she was doing. On her right, the musicians seemed to have forgotten where they played and acted as though it was a jam session. The trumpet player left his usual place behind Chester's piano to came closer and he looked at her intently. _It's like a dare,_ she thought, grinning back at him. He wanted to know if she could go on and speed up. When the drummer and Chester accelerated the rhythm once more, she followed, this time singing with husky intonations she didn't know she possessed.

_“Everybody loves my baby_

_But my baby don't love nobody but me_

_Nobody but me_

_Yes_

_Everybody wants my baby_

_But my baby don't want nobody but me_

_That's plain to see!”_

Ecstatic, she turned her thoughts to Sandor. _I'm sure he would like this song. Perhaps he would get the message if he listened to me singing._ On her right, the drummer looked mad, his percussion sticks flying from the ride cymbal to the drums, it seemed. Sansa told herself they had triggered something with that song; the frenzy she saw in the girls' eyes while they danced confirmed that impression. After the last chorus, she turned to the musicians, still swaying her hips, but soon Chester stopped playing; confused, she wondered why he didn't go on, before following his stare. In front of her, most of the girls had stopped dancing and as the last notes of the song came from the trumpet, she spotted Lothor Brune in the meeting hall. He wasn't alone.

Next to the henchman who worked for Baelish, she recognized Addam Marbrand and the brown-haired young detective who accompanied him the day he had showed up at Baelish's house to question her. Two more men in gray suits stood behind them and Sansa thought they were policemen too. A silence had descended upon the assembly as girls carefully moved aside to let them cross the meeting hall. Still onstage and observing the law enforcement agents coming closer, Sansa felt like her legs were going to give out. If the young detective seemed ill-at-ease with his hands fiddling with the trim of his cheap Fedora and visibly didn't know where to look in a room crowded with pretty, scantily clad girls, Addam Marbrand kept his chin up and wasn't easily taken back.

“Good afternoon, Ladies,” he said, deliberately ignoring the band. He swept the room, then locked eyes with a panicked Sansa. “We'd like to talk to some of you.” 

* * *

Sansa felt the policeman's gaze on her as she crossed her legs. Short-legged and bald despite rather young features, the man had probably begged Marbrand to come with him to the brothel. She granted Addam Marbrand was smart and well-organized; he had taken with him two men to keep the girls under surveillance while he questioned one of them with his partner, inside the now deserted meeting hall. The girls and the two policemen waited outside, in the entrance hall, Baelish's employees sitting whereas the policemen stood, straight as ramrods.

Relying on the element of surprise, they had shushed the girls easily at first, when they had separated six girls from the rest. Speechless and docile, the young women had complied and settled themselves in the gilded chairs Lothor Brune had taken in the meeting hall and displayed there, next to the heavy doors. Sansa glanced at her companions: on her right, Lois and Dorothy contemplated their polished shoes, like two little girls punished because they had misbehaved in Sunday school. On the other side, her arms tightly crossed about her chest, Meg sulked in her oriental costume.

Further, Jo caught her stare and smiled back. “D'you know why they keep us here?” she asked Sansa in an undertone.

“Shh!” hissed one of the policemen, a lanky boy who seemed a bit too zealous – _like all the beginners,_ Sansa mused.

Jo lifted her eyes to look at him; there was something akin to provocation in her behavior, something that said _“What are you going to do to me?”_ and she visibly enjoyed the puzzled gaze the two policemen exchanged. She leaned forward on her seat and swiveled her head to ask Sansa again: “Why?”

“Shut up!” the zealous policeman spat.

“Why? Can't I ask my friend a question? Isn't there a law to defend my rights?”

As Jo straightened her back to lock eyes with the lanky policeman, Sansa realized she was trying to impress the man, although they were treated like suspects or like witnesses at the very least. Surprised by Jo's act of rebellion, Lois and Dorothy stopped contemplating their pretty Mary Jane shoes and cast a timid glance at the policemen with a perfect sense of synchronization.

“You wait here and you stay silent,” the lanky boy replied.

“Oh, excuse me! Are we under arrest? Because I didn't hear you say the words, you didn't handcuff us and we're not in your damn precinct, so...” Her eyes challenging him, Jo stood up and waddled to the man.

“Sit down. Please.” The young policeman seemed more nervous with each passing second.

“Did you hear that, girls? He said 'please'!” Jo mocked, planting her plump figure in front of him. Her eyes glistened with mischief and a wolfish smile curled her full lips as she glanced around her shoulders to look at her friends. “Maybe we should introduce ourselves. Peitho insists on being courteous with law enforcement agents,” she went on, looking up at the man. “I'm Josephine, but friends can call me Jo. And lovers... No, I won't tell you what lovers call me. Not yet. What's your name, by the way?”

The policeman pursed his lips, hesitating. Sansa guessed he wondered if answering would make things worse, yet Jo could be convincing when she flashed a smile. In the end, he gave in.

“Humfrey Waters,” he mumbled.

She spun on her heels then gestured to the two blond girls sitting next to the doors. “Dorothy and Lois, say hello to Humfrey. Dorothy and Lois are sisters, as you can see and they share a lot. Even men. Are you into blond girls?” An embarrassed silence ensued, but Jo didn't lose her countenance. “Here's Meg,” she said. “Secretive little thing! Don't go by appearances, she's not the shy little girl you think she is. Far from it.” Jo paused and finally pointed at Sansa. “And of course, you watched Sansa while she was onstage. Quite a singer, right?”

At that moment, the brown-haired young man who assisted Addam Marbrand opened the door for Velma, one of the girls Sansa didn't spend much time with: eyes downcast, but visibly relieved, she exited the meeting hall and moved past them, heading to the staircase.

“Margaret DeMatteis,” Marbrand's partner called.

Meg stood up and walked to the meeting hall, looking up and down at the brown-haired man who adjusted his glasses. He arched his eyebrow when he noticed Jo was standing close to his colleague, yet he didn't comment her attitude. The door shut with a creaking noise and Jo instantly turned her attention on the policeman again. Bringing her hands to her plump hips, she gave him her best bedroom eyes.

“So you're not going to tell us why we're here?”

He shook his head, before swallowing hard when Jo's pudgy fingers hovered over his tie. Sansa repressed a nervous chuckle.

On her right, Dorothy nudged at Lois. “I'm thirsty,” Dorothy complained. “Dancing during the rehearsal made my throat dry and I didn't even have a chance to drink.”

“I think I can fix that,” Lois answered.

_What are they doing?_ Sansa wondered. Boring into the other policeman's eyes, Lois fisted the fabric of her blue dress and slowly hiked up her skirt until the top of her stockings was visible. _Oh my goodness!_ Lois kept a small silvery flask tucked into her garter. She took it with a sly grin; she handed it out to her sister who clapped hands with excitement. Dorothy opened it and took a long pull. _They're fit for the police station, now._ Astonished, Sansa tried to remember what kind of sentence one could get for keeping and drinking alcohol. _And she drank it in front of a policeman..._

The two blond girls' eyes nonetheless challenged the bald agent, then Dorothy put down the small flask. They stood up at the same time and slowly walked to the policeman who ran his hand over his bald head.

“You look bored,” Lois whispered, pouting.

“Are you going to handcuff me?” her sister asked, brushing the man's middle in the most suggestive way.

“I think I'd like handcuffs,” Lois confessed, addressing Dorothy. “Being unable to move and everything... Feeling helpless... Have you ever been handcuffed, Dotty?”

“You should really sit down and wait for Detective Marbrand-” The short-legged, bald policeman was torn between his loyalty to Marbrand and his desire to give in, yet his tone revealed he didn't believe in his own words.

Dorothy's giggle drowned out the rest of his sentence. The girl tilted her blond head back. “I think...” Dorothy bit her lower lip, almost grinding herself against the man. “I think you're bored to death and we need to do something about that.”

Lois wrapped her arms around the bald policeman's neck, while her sister kissed him full on the lips. His weak resistance emboldened them even more.

“I misbehaved,” Lois explained, trying to draw his attention. With her drawling voice, she didn't sound quite as sorry as her words conveyed. “I've been a very naughty girl, Officer.”

“Please, Ma'am-”

Dorothy's hands already unbuckled his belt, silencing him, and Sansa felt the urge to contemplate her fingernails she had just picked.

“You have to understand we've got a reputation,” she heard Jo tell the lanky man. She was so close to him he couldn't miss her cleavage. “We would feel terrible if you leave this place thinking we're not welcoming enough,” she trailed off, leading him to the nearest bench, in a dark corner of the entrance hall.

Feeling Lois' gaze on her, Sansa lifted her eyes. As the two policemen were busy with the girls, she motioned Sansa away with an incline of her head. Sansa got on her feet and tiptoed towards the staircase until someone snatched her wrist and yanked at her. Before she could understand what was happening, she was in Baelish's office and the dark-haired man who owned the brothel bored into her eyes. She stifled a gasp.

“It's alright,” Baelish whispered, brushing her cheek with a protective gesture. The contact of his hand made her skin crawl, but he didn't seem to notice. “Peitho warned me and I came back from the Red Mansion as soon as I could. Did you talk to Marbrand?”

She shook her head, pressing her back against the dark wood-paneled wall to put as much space as possible between herself and Baelish.

“One of my connections in the police told me Marbrand is convinced you have something to do with Meryn Trant's murder, but you don't, am I right?”

Sansa shook her head again.

“I have nothing to do with-”

“I know,” he cut her off.

_He's unable to see I'm lying,_ she mused. Sansa didn't know if she should rejoice or worry even more than she presently did.

“I talked to the girls and I told them not to let the police question you if they showed up again. The girls knew what to do, hence their little show.” He took a step forward, so that only a foot of space separated them. “I came back for you, Sansa.”

On the evidence of his shining eyes and his dramatic tone, she could tell he pictured himself as a knight in shining armor. In different circumstances, she would have laughed at his presumptuousness.

“Look at yourself, dear, you're terrified.”

_Terrified by you, not by Marbrand._ Marbrand was not a bad man, Sansa knew it for sure, just a smart and tenacious detective whose unrelenting efforts could lead to Sandor's arrest. In the presence of the investigator, she would never be afraid for herself but for the man she loved. Again, Baelish traced her jaw line in what was supposed to be a tender gesture.

“You'll wait for me here while I make an entrance and get rid of these... intruders.”

They heard the heavy doors of the meeting hall opening again, then muffled voices in the entrance hall before Marbrand boomed: “What the hell are you doing? Where's the girl? You were supposed to-”

“I'd better go now if I want to see those morons with their pants around their ankles,” Baelish said.

With a cocksure smile, he left her and walked out of his office. Eager to listen to what was going on in the entrance hall, Sansa stayed by the door.

“I'm delighted to see you enjoyed the company of my girls, gentlemen,” she heard Baelish comment. “Police officers are always welcome to Baelish's house.”

“Where the hell is she?” Marbrand's voice exuded anger and frustration.

“Who are you talking about?”

“Sansa Stark. I need to ask her a few questions.”

“You already asked her questions and she doesn't have more answers for you, I'm afraid. Unless you have a good reason to stay, like enjoying my girls' talents and paying for it, Lothor will show you out.”

There was a silence and Sansa imagined the air was thick with tension in the entrance hall; then, Marbrand rasped: “Why are you preventing me from asking her questions? Do you realize you arouse suspicions by doing that?”

She heard someone chuckle and she guessed it was Baelish when she heard his unctuous voice: “Does Tywin Lannister know you're currently bothering me and annoying my employees? Remember Tywin Lannister? The man who helped you get your position. Do you have the slightest idea of what could happen to your career if I ever complain?”

“I could have this place closed, Mr Baelish.”

“I doubt that very much. The people who support me are few but they're powerful. Who supports you, Marbrand? I'm not sure your long-lasting friendship with Jaime Lannister will help you keep your job, assuming you're still friend with him.”

Behind the door, there were more muffled sounds and footsteps until someone opened the front door then slammed it. A few heartbeats later, Baelish was back in the office, smiling reassuringly – as if his creepy smile could ever bring her the comfort she needed. She pressed her back harder against the paneling, wishing she could walk through walls and disappear.

“They're gone, Sansa.”

The more caressing his voice was, the more uncomfortable she became. Her back stiffened as he came closer and finally rested one hand against the wall, next to Sansa's head; she wondered how he would react if she stepped aside to escape his unsettling gaze.

“I thank you,” she whispered.

“You're welcome. Didn't I promise I'll be there for you the day this crazy man would be back?”

Sansa swallowed hard; oddly enough, the cunning, untrustworthy man who worked as Joffrey Baratheon's treasurer was able to keep a promise. _When it suits him._

“I'm very grateful,” she said, eager to break the silence.

“Don't worry, dear. You'll find occasions to prove your gratitude.” His remark sent a shiver down her spine: despite her efforts not to show her emotions, she felt her eyes widening. Petyr Baelish's gaze roamed over her, leaving an unpleasant trail of goosebumps on her skin; he took his time to contemplate the top of her breasts, her bare arms, her long legs emerging from the silvery dress. “You look pretty.”

“The- the rehearsal,” she explained. “I'll sing a new song in the next show. Marbrand and his men arrived right before the end, so I don't know yet if Peitho liked it... I hope- I think you'll be satisfied.”

“What's that new song?” he asked distractedly.

He was still leering at her. She averted her eyes, as if glancing at the desk, above Baelish's shoulder, could help her tolerate his inappropriate behavior.

“It's called _'Everybody loves my baby'_. It's a song by-”

“I've heard that song. _“Everybody loves my baby, but my baby don't love nobody but me”_ , is that correct?”

He gave her a smug smile. _Dream on._ Sansa wished she could slap him in the face. Silence stretched in the office where the sun cast long afternoon shadows. _I should leave him before things go farther._

“I'm sorry,” Sansa apologized. “What happened with the police disturbed your work, and you're probably busy. I should go now.”

With a polite smile, she stepped aside, thus putting more space between herself and Baelish. She heard him sigh and hoped he wouldn't try to make her stay any longer.

“I always have time for you, Sansa,” he cooed, making her stop mid-stride. “I think- I think I'll ask you to dance for me soon. As if I was your customer. I've been thinking about this for a while. We should have done that before.”

With reluctance, she slowly turned around to face him. “What about Peitho?” she asked bluntly, clutching to the faint hope he had enough respect for his lover not to hurt her feelings.

Baelish shrugged. “Peitho's not my wife, she's my employee. And even if she was my wife, she doesn't have to tell me who I can't fuck and who I can't watch.”

_Watch._ The notion he wanted to sit down in the armchair and to watch her dance was sickening. She remembered the tiny hole in the wall of her bedroom and her mouth went dry. _He likes to watch._

“I'd better go now,” she managed to say with a curt smile. She left the office on wobbling knees and hurried upstairs. 

* * *

Evie's water broke the next day, while she was sewing costumes in Sansa's bedroom.

They were supposed to have dinner in less than an hour and the two girls looked at each other, not knowing what to do. Sansa was the first one to realize the baby was coming and she quickly walked to her friend and forced her to lie down on the four-poster bed. Evie tried to protest at first, but she was too weak and above all too terrified to put up resistance; she thus stayed on top of the bed casting frantic glances around her as Sansa hurtled down the stairs to find someone's help.

The first person she found downstairs was Rose, who shared her concern, yet the old woman was busy preparing the dinner and she couldn't just leave the kitchens now, lest she lose her job in Baelish's house. Sick at heart, Sansa did the only thing she could and she ran through the house until she found Peitho.

“Where is Evie?” the madam asked, suddenly tense.

“Upstairs, in my bedroom. She's scared.”

“And you said she was there when her water broke?” Beyond the disbelief her words conveyed, Sansa recognized exasperation and though she couldn't understand why Peitho would blame her for something she wasn't responsible for, she guessed the blond woman was about to shout at her. “Is she still there, Sansa? Because you have a customer tonight and you'd better clean up the mess before your customer arrives!”

“Are you serious?” Sansa asked in astonishment. “I just told you Evie is going to have her baby and you only worry about a stupid carpet?”

“Oh, tone it down a bit, girl! You'll clean your dear friend's mess, whether you like it or not. Where's Luthor? I need him to take Evie upstairs...”

“Upstairs?” Sansa protested. “In her room? Have you lost your mind?” Her concern for Evie and the baby emboldened her. “Do you think the doctor can do what he has to do in such a small room? There's not even electric light upstairs!”

Peitho glared at her. “I'm not discussing something with you, Sansa, I'm giving you orders. Upstairs. Clean your room. Make sure your customer won't notice any change and smile pretty. Childbirth is not something you want to attend, so let me take care of this.”

Some girls had already gathered in the entrance hall when Peitho and Sansa had arrived and they whispered to each other. Sansa heard Peitho give orders to Lothor Brune while she climbed the stairs and the man knocked at her door right after she came back to check on Evie.

At first, Lothor didn't speak and he nodded at Evie who still lied on the bed. She propped herself on her elbows when she saw his tall figure in the doorway, and she demurely smoothed her wet skirt. Solemn and visibly anxious, he crossed the room and stopped next to the bed where Sansa already stood.

“I'm sorry,” he said, addressing Evie and Evie alone. “The blond jangler who rules this place told me you couldn't stay here and you should go back upstairs.” Sweeping Sansa's bedroom, he added on a thoughtful tone: “It would have been more convenient here, though. It was your idea, girl?”

Sansa nodded. There was a silence as Evie reached out to take Lothor's hand in hers. He gave her a feeble, yet encouraging smile. If these two had kissed or exchanged promises thanks to the encounter Sansa had planned, nothing had transpired; Evie had thanked her afterward and Lothor Brune had stopped frowning whenever he met her downstairs, so Sansa guessed it wasn't that bad.

“Don't think I'll leave you alone, Evie. I'll check on you later. As soon as I can,” he said reassuringly. “Come, now.”

He scooped Evie and gently lifted her; wrapping her arms around his neck, she timidly looked up at him. A lump in her throat, Sansa silently observed them. She felt like she didn't have the right to stare at them yet what she saw in their eyes mesmerized her. _Love. Trust. Dedication. That's it. Lothor will probably never admit it, but he's devoted to Evie and he'll do anything to protect her. Do I look like her when I'm in Sandor's arms?_

“Can you open the door for me?” he asked Sansa.

As he disappeared in the staircase, Evie in his arms, she fought back tears and prayed for her friend. The notion she had to dance for a customer that night instead of holding Evie's hand and helping her despite her lack of experience in matters of medicine or childbirth, seemed incongruous. Lothor, who had once more proved he loved Evie, would be on duty as well.

Eager not to provoke Peitho's anger, Sansa closed her door and gave a look at the carpet where Evie had had her waters break: there was nothing to do except roll up the rug and remove the wet bedspread where Evie had lied down for a few minutes. It was almost time to go downstairs for dinner. She was about to walk out of her bedroom when Lothor Brune knocked at her door. He looked preoccupied and asked if he could come in.

“Peitho called Mr Baelish and now she's calling the fucking midwife,” he announced, pacing up and down. Sansa told herself he was pallid.

“I thought she would call a doctor,” she replied. “Perhaps not Doctor Pycelle, but-”

“I thought that too. What do we do, Sansa?”

_We?_ In other circumstances, she would have found the strength to comment his remark lightheartedly. She would have exclaimed _“Music to my ears!”_ or something like that. Instead of expressing how relieved she was now that he seemed ready to help Evie, she just patted his forearm.

“Can you make sure nobody disturbs me while I call a doctor?” she asked.

“I should do it myself!”

“Certainly not! You can't lose your job now. I'll call a doctor and I'll take all the blame. Baelish can't fire me.”

* * *

There were two phones in Baelish's house: one was in Littlefinger's office and the other one was in the scullery. Lothor Brune stood guard whereas Sansa swallowed her nervousness before calling Pycelle; though Sansa didn't like the man, she knew he was experienced and she told herself that, at least, if he refused to come himself, he could give her the name of one of his colleagues. Despite her good manners, she couldn't help pinching the bridge of her nose when she heard his quavering voice. _For God's sake, does he do it on purpose or is he really that old?_

“Sansa Stark?” he said, disbelief making his voice piercing. “The lovely dancer of Baelish's house? Of course, I remember you! Do you think I am soft in the head?” He chuckled, but the sound reminded Sansa of a coughing fit. “What can I do for you, child?”

Sansa told him she needed his help for her friend who was about to have her baby.

“It's been a while since I last delivered a baby,” he confessed. “And if the lady just had her waters break, labor will probably last all night...”

“I'm sorry to bother you, Doctor Pycelle, but you're the most talented and experienced physician I know in Manhattan, that's why I called you.” _A hint of flattery can't do no harm._ “I bet you know every doctor in town and I'm sure you can tell me what colleague of yours I can call.”

Silence stretched for a few heartbeats.

“Doctor Pycelle?”

“I'll come, Sansa. I can do that for a charming young woman like you, of course. There's one condition, though...”

_Baelish and Peitho are going to kill me,_ she mused as she hanged up the handset and contemplatively looked at the candlestick phone. 

* * *

At eight o'clock, a few minutes after he had come back from the Red Mansion, Baelish stormed in Sansa's room while she was combing her short hair: her customer would be there soon.

“What have you done?” he shouted. “Peitho just told me Pycelle is here, although she called a midwife!”

His sudden arrival had startled Sansa and she had jumped at the slam of the door, yet she steeled herself and slowly turned to face him, her brush still in hand.

“I called Pycelle,” she said, undeterred.

“How do you dare? You disobeyed Peitho, which means you disobeyed me. Who's going to pay for this?”

“I am.”

Her eyes challenged him for a few seconds as she carefully put down the brush on her dressing table. She noticed a glint of disbelief and uncertainty in his eyes, though he kept staring at her. On an impulse, she decided she wanted to know if she had some influence on him so she pushed herself from her seat before crossing the space between them. That night, she wore a red dress with matching shoes and on the evidence of his look, Baelish had trouble hiding his lust behind anger.

“Doctor Pycelle told me he would take care of Evie for free, on the condition he could watch me dance anytime. I said yes.” Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest, but she did her best to conceal her emotions.

“Anytime?” he spat. “You think you can invite someone if you please? Hard work deserves a fair reward: each customer has to pay!”

“If hard work deserves a fair reward, why don't you give me my wages?” she heard herself ask. _God, I shouldn't have said this. He's going to punish me for being so disrespectful._

To her great surprise, Baelish snorted and slowly shook his head. “Frankly, Sansa...” His voice had softened. “You know you can ask for anything. Tell me what you want and I'll give it to you. We should- we should pay a visit to this jeweler-”

“No. You don't understand. Being a kept woman doesn't interest me.”

Speechless, Baelish stared at Sansa as if he had just met her. After a long silence, he brushed her upper arm but she shied away from him.

“It's alright,” he said. His words sounded like an attempt to reassure himself more than a response to her.

“I didn't only do it for Evie,” she explained, feeling like it was time to rub it in. “I did it for the baby. You told me once there's a family waiting for this child, outside. What will happen if you send Doctor Pycelle away and the baby doesn't survive?”

A forced smile pulled the corner of his lips. “I'm not going to send Pycelle away. Not now.”

“I acted in your interests too,” she lied. “I won't ask you to thank me when we are sure the baby is in good health, but please stop calling me a fool.”

The more she stared at his forced smile, the more she found it unpleasant; although it proved he wasn't that angry at her – Sansa told herself he was even ready to forgive her act of rebellion – she couldn't help feeling sick.

“I never called you a fool, dear. You disobeyed, which is quite different.”

He kept contemplating her until the acid taste of bile hit the back of her throat. _Keep calm, he'll be gone soon._ Baelish moved and positioned himself behind her so that he could watch the expanses of smooth skin her open-back dress revealed.

“You can't do that, Sansa: you can't defy authority like you did tonight, even if you meant well. Tell me you understand.” His attitude and the tension filling the room at this very moment contrasted with the seriousness of his speech.

“I understand,” she mumbled. “Am I punished?”

_Don't push your luck,_ a little voice chided her, and she instantly bit her lip.

He didn't answer at first, then she felt his hot breath on her neck. “I guess I should punish you, after what you've done, so I'm going to follow Pycelle's example. I'll ask you to dance for me. Anytime.”

Sansa's nails dug into her palm as she tried to remain motionless. She fought back tears, picturing herself dancing for him, until his words became an eye-opener. _This punishment he gives me is a farce because he wants me for himself. Peitho will call him an idiot because he didn't find the strength to punish me like he should have, in her opinion. I am his weakness._

“Did you see Evie? I wasn't allowed to check on her. How is she?” she added after a silence.

“I didn't visit her. I'm not exactly fond of screaming women and bloody sheets. And since Pycelle is here now, I assume she'll be alright.”

“Can I go check on her once my customer is gone?”

Baelish was still behind her and she swiveled her head to cast a glance at him. From where he stood, he could contemplate her profile, but she couldn't see his features. She heard him snort and he moved again, planting himself in front of her.

“Stubborn little Sansa,” he trailed off, cupping her chin. His thumb ventured on her cheek, then brushed her rouged lips. Sansa's pulse went racing but she didn't move. “I'm not going to lock you in your room, if you really crave to see your friend sweating and yelling... You're free to go check on her, if you want, for all the good it does. Just don't stay up all night: I don't want to see dark rings under your pretty blue eyes tomorrow morning.”

With another smile, he walked away and left her; on the pad of his thumb, her lipstick had left a red mark. 

* * *

Evie gave birth to a boy the morning after.

The sun was already high in the sky and the three persons crammed in the cubbyhole where Evie slept – the midwife, Pycelle and Sansa – were almost as exhausted as the parturient. Sansa had hurried upstairs as soon as her customer had left and she had stayed there all night, dabbing Evie's forehead and trying to reassure her. When Pycelle collapsed on the only seat available – a wobbly chair which chair seat sunk under his weight – Sansa sat down on the floor and the midwife follow suit.

“You both deserve a cup of tea and some food,” Sansa told Pycelle and the midwife. “If you want to go to the kitchens, our cook will take care of you. I can stay here and keep an eye on these two,” she added, with an incline of her chin. Both Evie and her son had fallen asleep.

“That's very kind of you, but I'm not able to go downstairs for now,” Pycelle replied.

The midwife frowned, and Sansa guessed the woman was either starving or dying to drink some tea.

“A frightening sight for a young lady like you,” Pycelle commented with a smirk.

_Does he take a perverse pleasure in making people uncomfortable?_ Embarrassed, she didn't answer.

“She doesn't look frightened to me,” the midwife said coldly.

Later, after Pycelle was gone – not without reminding Sansa of her promise – the girl went back to her room, took a bath and changed clothes. Then, feeling better though she lacked sleep, she headed to the kitchens; she was ravenous. As she crossed the entrance hall, someone cleared his throat in the entrance hall and she spotted Lothor Brune in the shadows.

“It's a baby boy,” she told him in an undertone when he came closer. “A beautiful baby boy.”

“I know, I've heard the news.” He looked somber and Sansa wondered what was on his mind. “We have a problem, girl.”

At that moment, the entrance door was flung open and she jumped at the sound before seeing a wiry, short young man. The unknown man smiled at Sansa and moved past them, whistling _'Tin Roof Blues'_.

“Who's this man?” Sansa asked Lothor, once the man disappeared in the meeting hall.

“I was speaking about him when I said we have a problem. His name's Shadrich. People call him the Mad Mouse. He's a tough one, although you tower above him. Baelish just hired him, which means he'll check the comings and goings. I can't just take Evie and the baby with me and escape with them. The countdown has begun, Sansa. Within a week or two, Baelish will sell the baby, then he'll send Evie away.”

“Why did Baelish hire this man?”

“Baelish's getting nervous. He said someone is stalking him.”

_Stalking Baelish?_ Her mouth agape, she stared at Lothor, trying to fathom what was going on. _Did Sandor follow Baelish? Did he try to hurt him?_

“Do you know something about Baelish being stalked by someone?” Lothor asked her, arching his eyebrow.

She swallowed the lump in her throat then shook her head. “No, but maybe I know how we can save Evie's baby. Can you deliver a message for me?” 

* * *

Andrei Berdokhovski's arrival didn't go unnoticed, two days later. Baelish had been disparaging the Russian customer's attitude, saying he didn't have any self-esteem left if he came back to Sansa so shortly after her betrayal.

“Do Russian people have any idea of what honor means?” he had told the girl, while she was trying to figure out which pair of earrings would be the finishing touch to her outfit.

_As if you knew what honor means._ Sitting in front of her dressing table, Sansa had ignored his remark and focused on her reflection, though her hands were shaky as she retrieved a pair of pearl drop earrings from the jewel case.

“No, these ones,” he said, coming closer and looking over her shoulder.

He showed some diamond earrings and Sansa felt like she had to yield. “You have good taste,” she commented. _Go away now,_ she thought as he grinned at her reflection. _And stop coming in my bedroom._

“Ask him if he wants to make an offer on your birthday party,” he commanded. “I didn't count on Berdokhovski, after the prank the Lannisters played on him, but if your bashful lover forgave you... Oh, and tell him Joffrey needed me tonight, but I would have been delighted to make small talk with him. Give him my best regards.”

With a unpleasant grin, he finally walked away and left her. Relieved, Sansa stood up and crossed the room before opening the bathroom door. Evie, who had barely recovered from childbirth, was hidden inside, sitting on a chair, her son in her arms. Wrapped in a blanket – the one Sansa had given Evie months ago – the baby was sound asleep and only his nose and a wisp of red hair were visible. She couldn't help smiling, despite the tension filling the air that night.

“He's gone,” she told Evie. “Baelish is gone and I believe he'll soon leave the house with the Mad Mouse. Only Lothor will be on duty, so you can escape tonight as well. Andrei said he'll take you and the baby to his house in Cape May. Baelish will fire Lothor as soon as he finds out, so he'll join you shortly after.”

Still holding the baby in her arms, Evie couldn't take her slate to write down what was on her mind, but Sansa knew she was dying to tell her something. The young woman pointed at Sansa quickly.

“Me?” Sansa asked. “I'm fine.”

What would happen to her once Baelish discovered the part she had played in all this? She didn't want to broach the subject; she thus plastered a smile on her face and ignored Evie's concerned gaze. _Andrei will be here soon. We'll do as we planned and they'll both leave the house tonight._ The notion she would be alone the morning after – without Evie's support, without Lothor who would be dismissed most likely – disturbed her, yet she behaved as if it left her completely indifferent. _I'll have plenty of time to complain about it later._

When Andrei Berdokhovski knocked at her door, Evie went back to her hiding place, lest Peitho who always accompanied Berdokhovski, peeked inside the bedroom.

“Have a look, Sansa... Another picnic!” the madam exclaimed with a forced smile, gesturing at the large wicker basket one of Andrei's employees was carrying. “Tell me the truth, Andrei, do you think we don't feed her?”

Andrei answered something in Russian and they both burst out laughing. Peitho left, not without patting Andrei's shoulder and the employee came in Sansa's room to put down the wicker basket, while another boy carried a folding table and two chairs.

“Do you mind if we have cold food tonight?” Andrei whispered to Sansa's ear. “I thought it would be more convenient if no one disturbs us.”

“This is perfect. I thank you.”

When the employees left, shutting the door behind them, Andrei was standing in front of Sansa and he slowly began to trace her jawline, then her neck and the curve of her shoulder, as if he tried to etch her figure in his memory. _He doesn't know if he'll ever see me again._ That notion moved her yet she couldn't turn away from her goal.

“My friend is inside the bathroom,” she said.

Andrei's hand was on her hip and he looked at her with a mix of devotion and regret.

“Can't she wait?” he asked in an undertone. “I don't want to be rude, but given what I'm going to do, I deserve some time with you and with you alone.”

Soon his lips were brushing her forehead, then her temples; with each passing second, his kisses that were slow and gentle at first, became more feverish. When she understood he was about to kiss her, Sansa found the strength to protest.

“Please, no. Don't ruin everything.”

He stepped back instantly. “I'm sorry, Sansa. I shouldn't have-”

“It's alright.” More than anything, she refused to hurt his feelings. He was a good, generous man and she already blamed herself for not being able to reciprocate his love. She tentatively took his hand. “You deserve to be happy. I can't give you the love you deserve, obviously.”

“You speak as if we would never see each other again,” he protested, squeezing her hand.

“You promised you would keep a low profile after tonight, Andrei. Let's face it: it's better for Evie and the baby if you stay away from New York, for a few weeks, at least. And I'll breathe easier if you're far from the Lannisters.”

His hand escaped hers. “Are you telling me you don't want to see me again, Sansa?”

She gaped. “Of course not! I want you to be safe. After what we've been through, I'll feel terrible if something happened to you.”

“Is it true?” His voice exuded sadness now, and the cold, dejected glisten of his blue eyes told her he wasn't feigning despondency.

“I want to see you again, Andrei. Once we're all free... and safe. I know I'll miss you.” _But I'll miss you like I'll miss Evie, because I see you as a friend._

Andrei chuckled nervously. “Are you sure you don't want to come with me tonight?” he asked her. “Maybe you could try to get into the wicker basket and escape. It's still time to change our plans.”

She smiled but they both knew his poor attempt for a joke fell flat. “It's time you meet Evie and her son,” she told him, walking to the bathroom door. 

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Sansa, Evie and Andrei were staring at the wicker basket Sansa had emptied.

“You had a very good idea. Assuming someone sees me downstairs, they'll never suspect a picnic basket,” Andrei told Sansa.

“I wish you're right. Rose gave us something so that the baby won't wake up before an hour or two. Nothing dangerous for him. Evie is afraid he will begin to cry before you reach the entrance door.”

Evie gave Andrei a feeble smile.

“I guess it's time,” he told the young woman.

Still careful not to wake him up, Evie kissed her son's forehead gently, while Sansa placed a folded blanket inside the wicker basket.

Andrei knelt by her side. “Let me help you.”

He brushed her hands and she instantly thought he had done it on purpose, because he anticipated the moment he would leave her. Sansa didn't shy away from him though and when his fingers collided with her wrist, she just smiled back at him. A knock at the door interrupted them, then they heard masculine voices in the entrance hall.

“Who is this?” Andrei whispered.

Her son in her arms, Evie silently crossed the room and returned to her hiding place. Sansa put the lid on the wicker basket before opening the door. Rose appeared on the threshold, wringing her hands. Sansa moved aside so that she could come in.

“Bad news,” Rose explained. “Evie can't just walk away. Mr. Baelish came back with the one they call the Mad Mouse. Brune told me to warn you before you did something stupid.”

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. _No, it can't be true._ Lothor had been carrying messages between Andrei and her, until they worked out all the details. They had chosen this night because, according to Lothor, Baelish would be out with the Mad Mouse who acted more or less as his bodyguard. Postponing the baby's escape was gambling with his safety: the child could be taken from Evie any day.

“What do we do?” she asked Andrei, shaking like a leaf.

“It's your friend's decision now.”

Evie had heard their conversation and she was already weeping when she came back.

“I'm sure there's a way,” Sansa told her reassuringly. “If you go to the kitchens, you can escape by the backdoor-”

“The back door is locked,” Rose informed her. “New orders. There's a chain and a padlock. Mr Baelish and the Mad Mouse have the only keys and when I need to take the trash out, I have to ask for it. Brune said he can make a copy of the key, but we won't get that copy before a few days.” _No way out. This is a nightmare._ “Don't even think about taking the fire escape,” the old woman added. “There's a man standing in the back alley and watching the surroundings of the house. Whoever tried to scare Baelish did a very good job.”

Evie looked down at her son through her tears. Repressing a sob, she carefully handed him to Andrei, who cradled the child silently. Then, ignoring Rose and Sansa's confused gaze, she walked to the desk where she had left her slate.

_“Take the baby with you. I'll escape later. Please.”_

“Are you serious?” Still cradling Evie's son, Andrei looked at her, his eyes widening.

_“There's no other choice.”_

“It was exactly what I didn't want,” Sansa lamented. “You and him, separated...”

_“It's alright. The child is better with YOU.”_ Written in capital letters, the last word was addressed to Andrei who remained speechless. _“Don't know how I can thank you.”_ Evie wiped away the words furiously. _“I'll try to find you when I'll escape.”_

_And what if she can't escape?_ Sansa wondered. For the first time in weeks, she thought they could very well stay there, like prisoners inside a golden cage.

Astonished, Andrei opened and closed his mouth once or twice before offering: “I think I can find a wet nurse for your child. I promise he'll want for nothing until you come. Cape May, New Jersey. The name of the house is “Kermes”, like the red dye, and the house is painted in red. Ask anyone in Cape May and they'll tell you where Kermes is. Kermes. By the sea. Understood?”

_He regained his practicality,_ Sansa mused, impressed by the way he handled the situation. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Sansa asked Evie.

The young woman nodded eagerly, then she kissed her son's forehead.

“It's almost time,” Andrei observed. “My employees will be there soon.”

He placed the baby in its makeshift crib and Evie herself, closed the lid of the wicker basket before hurrying to the bathroom. Meanwhile, Rose left and Sansa swept the room one last time, making sure they didn't forget something that could betray their plan. The two employees came back on time and one of them was surprised to find the table empty.

“Everything is inside the wicker basket,” Sansa lied. “I wanted to show Mr Berdokhovski I can be a perfect housewife.”

“It's a cruel joke, Sansa,” Andrei whispered to her ear.

The two employees were already on the landing, one of them carrying the folding table and its chairs, waiting for Andrei's signal.

“Just a minute,” he informed them. “I suppose now is time to say goodbye.” As he turned to Sansa, his expression changed and his painful look hurt her. “I'll come back. I know how you feel about all this, but I'll come back because-” He paused. “I suppose I can't do otherwise, Sansa.”

There was a silence and when a tear rolled down her cheek, he wiped it away with his thumb. “Here's the address,” he said, shoving a paper in her hand. “I'll wait out there, in Cape May.”

“Kermes,” she said, giving him a wan smile. “Kermes by the sea.” It sounded like an enchanted castle in the fairy tales her nanny told her back in Saint-Paul.

As he walked to the door, Baelish appeared in the staircase. He was heading to Peitho's bedroom or so it seemed. Andrei greeted him coldly, while Sansa, staying behind, kept her eyes on the wicker basket which precious content had remained silent so far. _Sleep tight. Don't move. Don't cry, we're trying to save you._

“Mr Berdokhovski, what a surprise!” Baelish said. “I've been sorry to hear about your recent misfortune.”

“It is very thoughtful of you.”

“Still visiting my dear Sansa? And you had dinner? What a lovely night you had... I wasn't that lucky. The meeting I was supposed to attend was canceled and there I am. Political life's ups and downs!”

Always courteous, Andrei had nonetheless something about his eyes that revealed his hatred for Baelish; Sansa wondered if the dark-haired man perceived this as he stroked his pointed beard. The moment Baelish knocked at Peitho's door then disappeared inside, she let out a deep breath she didn't know she had been holding. Andrei spun on his heels, very slowly, as if he feared she already wasn't behind him; on an impulse, Sansa hugged the tall man whose selflessness surprised and moved her. With her face buried in the collar of his gray suit, she found it hard not to burst into tears. Andrei's large hand patted her back and she felt his breath on the crown of her head.

“Enough,” he whispered reproachfully after a second or two. “Don't make it more difficult.”

It was he who broke their embrace, leaving Sansa with a sensation of void.

“Be careful,” she said, tears pricking her eyes and blurring her vision.

His forlorn smile hurt her as he stepped back and almost bumped into one of his employees. As the young man apologized, Andrei's eyes fell on the wicker basket and he leaned to grab the handle.

“I'll carry this. This china is too precious...” he trailed off and the boy, mesmerized and suddenly feeling useless, took the folding table from the hands of the other employee.

Andrei cast another glance at Sansa, who still stood on the threshold of her bedroom, trying to regain her composure, and the three of them reached the flight of stairs leading to the entrance hall. Listening to their footsteps, Sansa stayed still and she only spotted Meg, who was coming from the third floor and visibly showed her back to the customer, a middle-aged man who could have been a traveling salesman by the look of his brown jacket crumpled in the back and his strong southern accent. Meg barely paid attention to the man's empty compliments, leaning over the guardrail instead to catch a glimpse at Andrei who already crossed the entrance hall with his employees if the dull sound of their footsteps on the tiled floor was any indication. The front door creaked open and she heard the Mad Mouse cackling: Sansa couldn't explain why, but she found his laughter ominous.

_Life goes on here. Customers come and go. I should get back inside and check on Evie._ She turned around and closed her door carefully before heading to the bathroom where Evie was crying. On the young woman's face, sorrow had left the red and wet marks of tears. Her baby was gone, she couldn't join him right away and the only thing they could do now, was think of another way for Evie to escape. _And once it's done, I'll run away with Sandor._ Taking Evie in her arms, she tried to comfort her friend although her courage abandoned her. _Good things come in three._ Old Nan said so when she was a child, fascinated by the stories the old woman told her. Evie's child would be the first of them to escape the brothel. Then, very soon, it would be Evie's turn and finally hers.

As Evie clutched to her, sobbing in Sansa's arms, anxiousness built inside the girl. Her hopes could vanish in the night like Andrei had walked away in, taking the child with him. Things may not happen as they had planned: if smuggling a baby out of the brothel was an adventure, helping Evie escape could be far more dangerous.

_Things may not happen as we planned them._


	21. Painting The Town In Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The other day I was thinking about one of the songs you sing, dear, and I couldn’t remember the name of the composer," Baelish began, undeterred by her refusal to come with him. "I thought “This man is Sansa’s favorite composer: what’s his name?” I had his name on the tip of my tongue.”  
> Sansa swiveled her head, wary. So knowing her shoe size and what kind of clothes she liked wasn’t enough; he had inquired on her musical tastes as well.  
> “The interesting thing is, a friend of mine mentioned this composer yesterday and I felt stupid, because I should have remembered you worship this man. Irving Berlin. He’s your favorite composer, right?” Baelish was playing with the silvery cigarette case as he watched her, and Sansa noticed the mockingbird engraved on it.  
> “What’s the matter with Irving Berlin?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.  
> “Did I mention that... Irving Berlin is one of the guests at the dinner I want to take you to?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of antisemitism.
> 
> Thanks to Underthenorthernlights for her precious help: even when she's extremely busy - and she is, these days - she still finds time to selflessly betaread this fic.
> 
> Thanks a lot to you who read this story, left kudos or sent comments: it means a lot to me!
> 
> This chapter is a special one, because Sansa meets her idol and finally talks to him... I really had fun with this chapter and I sincerely hope you'll enjoy your time reading this. If it doesn't sound like a plea for comments...

Someone knocked at her door and, through the dreamy haze she was in, Sansa feebly protested. _No, not now._ Rolling up into a ball under the covers, she tried to remember where she was and what had happened before she fell asleep because, she knew it, she knew it was important, something bad had occurred a few hours ago, something fitful sleep could not erase.

Whoever knocked at her door was growing impatient, for the sound was louder now. She sat up and spotted Evie asleep beside her, fully clothed. _The baby. Andrei. All the doors locked and guarded…_ On an impulse, Sansa nudged Evie and she hoped the young woman would understand she had to hide herself before someone found her inside her bedroom.

“Evie, please,” she whispered, “Evie-”

The door flung open and although the thick velvet curtains obscured the morning light, Sansa saw a furious Petyr Baelish coming in uninvited. Still wearing her dressing gown, Peitho followed him; she glared at Sansa who instantly pulled the blankets to her chin in a derisory attempt to protect herself. Baelish stepped forward until he stood by the four-poster bed.

“Where is the baby?” he spat, leaning against one of the bed columns.

Sansa remained silent. On her right, Evie had sat up and she shook like a leaf.

A few hours before, as Sansa vainly tried to comfort her friend, Evie had made her swear she would never tell where the baby had been taken to, no matter the consequences. Evie had insisted, explaining she could envision anything, provided that her child wasn’t sold to the highest bidder like some cattle. Even if Sansa was afraid for Evie’s safety, she must keep the secret. Revealing it to Baelish would be a betrayal.

Surprised by her silent determination, Baelish chuckled nervously. “So at least, we found the new mother. You know I wanted to check on you first thing in the morning, dear?” he went on, addressing Evie. “Just to make sure you and your precious child were alright. I got some news from the wealthy couple who wanted to adopt your baby, last night. So a few minutes ago, I went upstairs and I found your room empty. I was worried. I thought your dear Sansa could have some information for me, but as it turns out, you spent the night here and Sansa has to know what happened.”

An ominous silence fell upon the room as Baelish swiveled his head to stare at Sansa. “Tell me where is the baby, Sansa. Be a good girl now and tell me where he is.”

A panicked glance was all she offered him. Sansa was thinking about Andrei, trying to decide if he could have arrived in Cape May by now. _It’s likely. He said he was ready to leave New York. Assuming he went back home, took his luggage and drove by night, he’s in New Jersey now, with the baby. I hope they’re both alright._

“Sansa!” Baelish barked. “Don’t disappoint me!”

She heard muffled voices on the landing and as Peitho had left the door open, curious eyes peeked in the bedroom. Sansa spotted a bewildered Edna and a whispering Lois. In all likelihood, what Lois would retain from the incident wasn’t Baelish’s anger nor his threatening tone but the fact Sansa had shared her bed with another girl. Woken up by Baelish’s booming voice, more girls gathered in the doorway, taking everything in. Among the girls who crowded in on the threshold, she spotted Meg and her heart skipped a beat.

“I know what happened,” the dark-haired girl announced. Her confident tone and her unblinking gaze surprised everyone, including Baelish who turned around to face her. “I saw her with her customer last night. I know exactly what they did.”

“Oh, you know what happened, Meg?” he told her, disbelief lacing his words. “Very well. Enlighten us!”

“I heard her talking to her customer as if she wasn’t going to see him for some time. And the man had a huge wicker basket. The baby was inside.”

“This is ridiculous!” Edna protested, though no one had asked for her opinion. “You’re a jealous little bitch, Meg, that’s what you are!”

Peitho shushed Edna with a glare and the tall brunette crossed her arms about her chest, appalled by what she saw. Still standing by the bed, but glancing from time to time at Sansa, Baelish stroke his neatly trimmed beard.

“How can you be sure the baby was inside that basket?”

“Very easy,” Meg answered, barely restraining herself from strutting about. She took a step forward, narrowing the space between herself and Baelish. “He had these two houseboys with him, but he carried the basket himself, as if he didn’t trust them. Why would a rich man like him would carry a basket, unless there’s something precious - something special - inside?”

As the girls gathered on the landing whispered, Sansa swallowed hard. _I thought it was a good plan. I thought everything would work. I had the idea we could hide the baby inside the picnic basket. It was foolish. I should have known._ Beside her, Evie was already weeping.

“Clever little Meg,” Baelish commented. “Your explanation is quite convincing, though what I really need to know is where the baby is now.”

“I guess he’s at this customer’s place-” Meg offered.

“No, dear. I’m afraid Mr Berdokhovski is not stupid enough to stay in New York after stealing this child from me.” Baelish spun on his heels and he grinned at Sansa. “We already had a conversation about all this, you and me. You know the consequences, Sansa. You know what you can do to help your dearest Evie.”

All of a sudden, Evie’s hand wrapped around Sansa's, under the covers and by a quick glance at her friend, the young woman made it clear. _Don’t say a word,_ she had written on her slate, a few hours earlier. _Baelish must stay away from my son. If you care for me, do whatever it takes._

“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” she spoke, waiting for his reaction with bated breath.

Silence stretched in the bedroom. Evie squeezed her fingers as if to thank her. _You can do it, Sansa. Protect my son and don’t say a word._

“Out,” Baelish spat without ever looking at the girls gathered in the doorway. “Get back to your bedrooms, all of you.”

Meg stepped forward again. “Petyr, if I can-”

“It’s ‘Mr Baelish’, for you, girl,” Peitho said coldly.

“I said ‘out’,” he repeated, this time addressing the dark-haired girl who was losing her countenance. Meg walked away, brow furrowed above her almond-shaped eyes. “Peitho, I’m sorry I bothered you,” Baelish added. “You should go back to sleep.”

“Do you think I can fall asleep after this… incident?” the madam inquired, astonished by his behavior. “You’re not serious.”

 _She doesn’t want to leave him alone with me,_ Sansa realized, and this time it was she who squeezed Evie’s hand.

“Quite the contrary, dear. I appreciate your concern, but I can handle this myself. Close the door behind you.”

Sansa couldn’t tell if he was aware of it or not, but he licked his lips as the madam left, the furious rustle of her dressing gown revealing how angry she was. Peitho slammed the door, making both girls jump; Evie took Sansa in her arms, although they knew it wouldn’t change what awaited at least one of them.

“If you don’t want things to get out of hand,” Baelish began, pulling aside the curtains, then walking back towards the bed and coming closer to Evie, “you’d better tell me where he is.”

“What are you going to do?” Sansa asked, her frightened look belying her bravado. “You wouldn’t hurt the baby, because you want him alive.”

Evie’s hold on her tightened when the man stopped, a cruel smile pulling the corners of his lips. “Don’t underestimate me, sweet girl. I would never hurt that child, because a dead baby wouldn’t be of any use but I can cause harm to the foolish man who smuggled the child out of the brothel to impress you. How does that sound?” Baelish ignored Evie’s frantic gaze and focused on Sansa instead.

 _He thinks I’m weak, he expects me to give way._ Sansa kept her chin up, staring back at him; in the crook of her neck, Evie’s tears had left a wet trail. _I can’t betray her now, even if it means-_

“But before I turn on your Russian beau, I can do something that will make you change your mind, Sansa.” Snatching Evie’s wrist, he tried to make her get up. Terrified, the young woman resisted at first, the mattress depressing under her weight as she feebly struggled, then she escaped Sansa’s arms and stood up with resignation. “Good girl. At least one of you takes sensible decisions. Now, Evie, you’re going to write down Berdokhovski’s address. Not the one in New York, the place where he took your child, in hopes Sansa would spread her legs for him.”

Trembling, but holding his gaze, Evie shook her head. Baelish cupped her chin. “Write it down, Evie.” He didn’t speak loud, but his tone was threatening all the same. “Did Sansa tell you where I’m going to send you? Did she give you details? The poor girl was so scared that day she thought I would leave her in a cheap brothel where my employees have up to thirty customers a day. As if a girl like Sansa could work out there,” he snorted. “You, however… You don’t even deserve pity. You’re already broken, and if it wasn’t for your good looks, you’d never work here. Sansa is irreplaceable in my house, but sadly, you’re not.”

From where Sansa was, she could see Evie’s slender frame shaking, as the young woman weeped convulsively. Sansa wiped away the tears that rolled on her cheeks; her sobs echoed Evie’s who still faced Baelish. _I can’t let him do that._

“Please don’t,” Sansa begged, getting out of the bed on wobbling knees then standing behind Evie. “Don’t hurt her. It’s my fault.”

Turning around, Evie shook her head; through her tears, the young woman seemed to plead with her.

Baelish smirked. “You know what to do, Sansa. Write down the address this fool inevitably gave you, and I’ll reconsider my decision.”

 _If you agree on telling the truth to save me, he’ll send me away all the same. It’s just a matter of time._ Evie had been adamant while they were talking about the consequences of the baby’s escape.

“I can’t tell you where he is, but…” Her mouth went dry. “I’ll dance for you, as you asked me to.” Evie shook her head vehemently, but Sansa refused to meet her gaze. “I can- I can also-”

The door creaked open and when Sansa recognized Peitho, she couldn’t help thinking the madam had been listening to their conversation from the beginning. Haughty and not paying attention to the girls’ reddened eyes, she planted herself in front of Baelish.

“Mrs. Henshaw wants to know if she needs to prepare a room for a new comer. What do I tell her?” Her icy tone seemingly surprised Baelish, for he arched an eyebrow.

“Frankly, Peitho-”

“I’m afraid I need an answer. Quickly, if possible.” Her remark, as courteous as it was, exuded resentment and exasperation. _Is she reminding him she’s still his mistress and she can harm him if he forgets himself?_

Baelish snorted. “Very well. Tell Mrs Henshaw the girl will be there in an hour. And please ask the Mad Mouse to come right away. His help can be useful if someone doesn’t obey.”

Peitho’s back stiffened, yet she walked to the door and stayed on the threshold as she called the Mad Mouse. Despite the henchman’s light build, the wooden stairs creaked ominously under his weight and when Sansa saw him sticking his head in the door, she felt terribly weak. Braver than most people thought she was, Evie wiped her tears with the back of her hand and stepped towards him.

“Don’t leave me alone here!” Sansa cried, addressing Evie. She instantly regretted it, knowing her attitude wouldn’t help her friend, yet she had to say these words, she had to let Evie know she would feel left behind once the Mad Mouse, Baelish, or anyone else would take the young woman to the brothel located outside New York. No matter how bustling the house was, she would feel lonely the moment her friend would go. Evie turned around for a second and through her tears, Sansa locked eyes with her. _We know this couldn’t last forever, Evie had written before they both fell asleep. You’re my friend, but you’ll be gone someday. You don’t belong here._

Sansa suddenly hugged her. “I don’t want you to go,” she whispered in Evie’s ear.

Evie’s red curls - that hair that had caught Sandor’s attention the first time he had visited the brothel, she guessed - tickled her nose. Though he had never felt anything akin to love for Evie - she knew it now - the man she loved had found solace in the young woman’s arms and it was strange to imagine that, months later, her presence in Baelish’s house had brought comfort to Sansa as well. And now, although her fate was sealed, she was the one who reassured Sansa with a pat on the back. Most people despised the young woman they saw as a misfit, thus ignoring she was comfort and acceptance. _They’re so wrong,_ Sansa mused.

Baelish broke their embrace by snatching Evie’s wrist again and he shoved the young woman forward; sniffing, she obeyed and left Sansa’s bedroom, Baelish and the Mad Mouse close on her heels. Peitho glared at Sansa when she tried to follow them, then she stood in the way so that the girl couldn’t go after her friend. Sansa heard them going upstairs, most likely packing Evie’s meagre belongings and coming back down after a while. Still crying, Sansa walked to the French window, opened it and stepped on the balcony. She spotted Evie getting in a black car with the Mad Mouse and that was all: she had lost the only friend she had in Baelish’s house. 

* * *

Lothor Brune demonstrated perfect composure in the aftermath of Evie’s dismissal, coming back to Sansa and discussing his plans with her. Cold and uncouth as he was, the man seemed to value her opinion and he never questioned the choices Sansa had made to help her friend. On the contrary, at a time when Sansa felt guilty because she was safe whereas Evie had been sent to a place she considered like hell on earth, he told her she had at least saved the baby.

 _Poor child, he doesn’t even have a name,_ Sansa thought bitterly. When she had broached the topic with Evie, the young mother had refused to give her baby a name for now and Sansa read it as a sort of superstition, because their fate was still uncertain.

“I know where she is,” Lothor Brune informed her. “The best moment to slip inside is the morning, when the whores are asleep, so I’ll go tomorrow morning. Not sure I can come back here after, so this may be the last time I see you.”

“You can’t do that alone,” Sansa protested. She had dried her tears and after the depressed haze of Evie’s departure, she had spent the whole morning thinking about how they could rescue her friend.

“So what? The banker’s daughter is going to help me?” he said, snorting. “You stay here and you keep a low profile. You already took risks. Besides, they’re all keeping a close eye on you, they expect you to do something stupid. They trust me, especially Mr Baelish, so I should be the one to go out there and to rescue Evie.”

Sansa bit her lip. “I know someone who can help you. His name is Sandor Clegane but he goes by the Hound.”

“He’s one of your customers!” Lothor exclaimed. “How many of them promised to help you?”

 _Two, and that’s one too many._ “It doesn’t matter,” she replied a bit stiffly. “Let me write a note and give this note to him. He’ll help you. I’d feel better if I know you’re together in this.”

Despite his outward reluctance, Lothor finally agreed and he watched Sansa writing a message for Sandor. In a begging tone, she asked him to help Lothor so that Evie could escape the brothel. Her pen hovering over the paper, she hesitated for a while before adding something about Baelish locking and guarding the doors because someone had stalked him… Her belief Sandor had been the one behind this was getting stronger; maybe insisting on this wasn’t fair, but if Sandor had something to do with the incident, he would probably feel obligated to help.

When Sansa held the message out to Lothor, he gave her a key. “It opens the padlock of the back door, downstairs, in the kitchens. I stole it from the Mad Mouse’s bunch of keys and as I lack time to get a spare key cut, I replaced it by another one that looks like it. He’ll most likely think I stole the key and kept it.”

Sansa thanked him and a short silence followed.

“Do you plan to escape by the back door or do you want to let someone come in?” he asked her. “I know that’s none of my business, but what’s going on with this man, the Hound?”

“As you put it, that’s none of your business. What do you intend to do once Evie is safe?”

He shifted from foot to foot. “We’ll most likely try to find the baby, then…” He shrugged, visibly ill-at-ease.

“You should perhaps stay there and see if you can offer your services to Mr. Berdokhovski. The Lannisters hold a grudge against him so he’ll need people like you.”

Lothor Brune took his leave shortly after, repeating she shouldn’t do anything stupid; Sansa read it as a proof that, beyond his coldness, the man genuinely felt for her. 

* * *

Peitho had made it clear: she couldn’t leave her room that day. Furthermore, she would take her meals alone in the kitchens, after the other girls. Sansa guessed the madam had taken it upon herself: she doubted Baelish would have made such arrangements. In any case, Sansa was punished and she spent the day alone, locked in her bedroom.

After the girls’ lunch, once they had returned to their rooms, Sansa went downstairs and sat at the table to eat the leftovers of a chicken and some boiled vegetables. Even Rose had deserted the place, whether she had something to do elsewhere or Peitho had demanded her absence while Sansa ate lunch. Picking at her cold chicken, Sansa brooded over the last events, when the door flung open: Edna stormed in, red-eyed and sniffing. The moment she spotted Sansa, she tried to regain her composure, yet she was too upset to do a good job at hiding her tears.

“What are you doing here?” she asked Sansa. “Why didn’t you eat with us?”

Sansa put down her fork and daintily wiped her mouth. “Peitho said I needed to be corrected. I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

Edna snorted, then she turned her back to Sansa and she began to open the cupboards.

“What are you looking for?” Sansa whispered. She wondered what would happen if Peitho saw her talking to someone, despite the madam’s instructions.

“I’m looking for booze. Believe me or not, I’d kill for giggling water. Rose must have sherry somewhere…”

“What happened, Edna?”

A long silence ensued, as the tall brunette’s shoulders sunk. With reluctance, she sighed and spun on her heels until she was facing Sansa. Stepping forward, she seized the back of a wooden chair and leaned against it. “You know what we have in common, you, with your cold chicken and I, with my red eyes and my sudden need for booze? Peitho. She punished you. And we argued… about you and Evie.” Bewildered, Sansa wasn’t able to express her interrogation at that moment. “I told her Baelish was a monster to send Evie in this place. We all know what happen to the girls who work out there after a while: either the hospital, because they got syphilis or whatever VD or... the loony bin. She replied you were to blame for what happened, because you gave Evie foolish ideas.”

Edna stopped and avoided Sansa’s gaze, visibly moved. “Her remark drove me mad, so I told her you did something both very silly and very brave. I even said I wished I could find someone able to do for me what you did for Evie. Then I added I didn’t expect Peitho to be that someone.” Edna’s hands were still on the back of the chair and Sansa noticed how her knuckles has become white.

“I’m sorry you both argued about Evie and me,” Sansa offered, sheepish.

“Oh, don’t be. All the fuss that happened this morning was quite an eye-opener. We know exactly what we can expect from Meg now - even a bearcat like Viola was shocked. And as for me, I realized what kind of person Peitho is. I thought I didn’t care, I told myself I didn’t become attached to her…” She paused, and let out a nervous chuckle. “I swore to myself I would never carry a torch for her... Guess what? It hurts.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Edna covered her mouth with her hand, as if she wanted to suppress her sob, then she ran away from the kitchens.

* * *

There was something different about Sandor when he came back to her, announcing he had rescued Evie with Lothor Brune before letting both of them go to Cape May; far from boasting himself of saving Sansa’s friend, he looked concerned.

It was already late and he had sneaked in thanks to the key Lothor had provided them, at first hiding himself in the kitchens, then following Rose who had showed him the backstairs. To reach Sansa’s bedroom, Sandor had had to go past Peitho’s door, but it wasn’t enough to disturb him. _Yet he looks anxious…_ She tackled the issue of Baelish’s paranoia, seemingly caused by a man who had stalked him a few days before, imagining Sandor’s unease had something to do with it.

“Want to know if I followed him?” he spat, gruff as ever. “Yes I did.”

“But why? Baelish went mad after that night and now all the doors are closed-”

“The old cook opened the door for me,” he cut her off, his impatience more visible with each passing second.

“Only because Lothor Brune stole a key to help us. You couldn’t sneak in like you did before, using the fire escape, you saw how dangerous coming in has become for you… Not to mention Evie! She probably could have escaped the same night her son did, if it wasn’t for those security measures Baelish took after you stalked him!”

Sandor rolled his eyes and in his headstrong behavior she saw again, the untamed beast he was the first time he had visited her in Baelish’s house. _The fearsome, violent Hound._ “Are you done, girl?” he inquired, towering above her. Sandor was so threatening when he looked at her this way it was difficult for Sansa not to shiver in her pretty nightgown.

 _Back to square one,_ she thought. She felt like the frightened girl she was when he had offered to help her escape, as she withstood his furious gaze. Instead of smoothing out their differences, the intimacy they had reached during the previous weeks only made everything worse, in her opinion. _I trusted you, I almost gave myself to you and you did something so stupid I can’t even understand it._ Sandor glared at her, but at some point she wondered if he wasn’t feasting his eyes on her as well. _You thought I would welcome you in my bed without even questioning what you did?_ Her eyes shone with anger and defiance - just like they did whenever they met by accident inside the Red Mansion and he behaved like a brute. The unpleasant but now familiar warmth on her cheeks came back as he stared at her, scowling.

“Why?” she repeated, her voice quavering.

He shrugged and although his refusal to explain himself could have infuriated her even more, she felt like there was nothing else to expect. “I don’t know,” he confirmed, his features somehow softening.

 _We demand an explanation for everything, Sansa. But some things just happen and you can’t explain them,_ Evie had written on her slate as Sansa complained about the way their plan had failed. _What is done is done._ Evie was right: the whys and wherefores of Sandor’s attitude the night he had stalked Baelish wouldn’t change anything now. Still facing each other, they remained quiet for a while.

In the end, it was Sansa who broke the silence. “I’m glad you helped Lothor Brune,” she heard herself say.

He shrugged once more; he was so close she could have kissed him if she had stood on tiptoe. “You asked me to help so I helped him.” His detached tone didn’t match his anxious gaze.

“Was it difficult?” she inquired. “How- how was she when you found her?”

To her questions, he answered with reluctance, giving few details; Evie was scared to death when they had broken in. Though he never dared ask her, Sandor was convinced she had had several customers during the few hours she had spent out there. He added the people in the brothel didn’t offer much resistance but the madam had most likely recognized Lothor, whose recklessness had surprised him. Nobody had seen him, as far as he knew.

“She’ll recover,” he finally said. “She’s stronger than you think. And this man, Lothor Brune, seems to be a rather decent fellow. He stole a car and skipped out with her, hitting all cylinders.”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Sansa snaked her arms around his neck: “I’m sorry I asked you to take those risks,” she whispered against the collar of his white shirt. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Sandor mumbled soothing words and wrapped a protective arm around her waist, resting his chin on the crown of her head. There was something tender in his attitude; however, when Sansa put light kisses on his neck, focusing on the spot that usually made him shudder and curse under her touch, nothing happened. As she went on with her ministrations, buttoning down his waistcoat and caressing his chest through his shirt, the dull ache inside her lower belly came back. _It’s been almost a week since I last saw him._

“I missed you,” she said in an undertone, her hands wandering on his middle, her fingers brushing the metallic buttons holding his suspenders.

Wetness had pooled between her legs with anticipation, yet she realized something was amiss: Sandor generally stopped her when she reached this area or he growled his approval before leading her to the bed and taking care of her needs. That night, against all odds, he didn’t react and stood there, straight as a ramrod, making her feel both wanton and stupid.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, stopping abruptly.

“Nothing,” he replied and his absentminded tone struck her.

Sandor then led her to the bed where he untied the ribbon of her dressing gown and let it slide from her shoulders. He took off her slippers as he usually did, then he raised to his full height, so that she helped him remove his shirt and undershirt; those were the gestures he usually did when he spent the night with her, but now there was nothing of the feverishness Sansa had grown accustomed to. Stiff and emotionless, he let her do as she pleased. If she expected urgent kisses and passion, she got little for her efforts. After she slid under the covers, still hoping his distant attitude would vanish as soon as he would see her lying on the mattress, he walked around the bed, took off his shoes and lied down. Then, without even asking her, he turned off the light.

“What’s wrong, Sandor?” she asked again, eyes wide open in the dark.

He didn’t answer at first, then she heard his mirthless laugh. “Funny how you got used to it, right? Every time I show up here, you expect me to lick your nipples and to fuck you with my fingers.”

“Does it make you feel better to sully what we have?” she protested, shocked by his words.

“Spare me, girl. I saw how you looked at me before I turned off the light, I know you’re wet.” Lying on one side and coming closer, he spoke in her ear and although she couldn’t see anything now that the lights were out, she guessed he was smiling cruelly. “You had found an obedient dog to warm your bed and now you’re pissed off because there won’t be any petting tonight.” He grasped her shoulder and held her tight until she was flush against him.

“You’re hurting me,” she said, on the verge of tears. All of a sudden, he let go of her and she rolled on one side to face Sandor, trying to understand what had just happened. “Are you mad at me because I asked you to help Evie?”

“No... Maybe. I can’t think straight tonight,” he explained. His voice had softened, like his features had previously, after she confronted him about the night he had stalked Baelish. _What happened to him? What plunged him into such torment?_ “I thought helping Evie would only make matters worse,” he said. “I thought you would-”

“Question your feelings?” she suggested. The mattress moved under his weight as he shifted. _To admit I would question his feelings in such a case, he should have confessed them in the first place. He never did._ She bit her lip.

“I just thought it would be weird if I helped a girl I used to fuck... with you knowing this from the start… I never imagined you could befriend a woman I slept with.”

 _He thinks it’s easier if he compartmentalizes things and people, she thought. There are the women he slept with and there is… me._ The notion that words of love would probably never pour out of his mouth could have hurt her, but with time, she had learned to find the tiniest clue in his behavior and in his speech. Oddly enough, she was content with it. With caution, she extended her arm and brushed his cheek, relishing the tickle of his stubble under her fingers. He grunted his approval, then he flipped her on her back and rested his head on her chest. As they layed there, Sandor snuggling up to her while she ran her fingers through his hair, Sansa’s concern for him increased. She had watched him lose his temper a few times, but never had he shown alternatively anger and despondency. _Except once…_

“Gregor is back,” he announced, his voice a whisper against her throat.

She suppressed a shiver and he tightened his grip on her, one hand on her rib cage, fisting the silky fabric of Sansa’s nightgown. _So that’s it._ Gregor finally came back from the Appalachian Mountains where he was chasing the Brotherhood without Banners.

“He paid a visit to the Lannisters yesterday. He still has things to sort out with those fuckers he was hunting down, so he couldn’t stay in town and he left again this morning. Don’t mistake me: the Brotherhood will yield or they’ll snuff it. He slaughtered their leader, or he thought he had, because the man has reappeared. Beric Dondarrion might be a smartass, but he’s a goner. My fucking brother will be back in town next week.”

“Did you see him?” she asked after a while, still caressing his hair. 

"Nope. Jaime Lannister’s bloody report was enough.” He shifted again, this time propping himself on his elbows.

Sansa brushed away the strands of hair she felt under her fingers while touching his face. “If he hurts you…” she began.

“What, if he hurts me? You’re going to put your needlework away and to beat the crap out of him?” he rasped. “Maybe I’ll be the one who cracks his skull, this time.”

Sansa tried to protest, but she knew her argument would never reason with him; in desperation, she did the one thing she thought of some use in this case and she took him in her arms. With Sandor on top of her, she almost suffocated, but she was past the point of caring: she started to cradle him, whispering against the crown of his head.

“I don’t want you to get hurt. I can only imagine how you feel about your brother, but please don’t provoke him. I want to escape with you and nobody else.” As Sandor’s weight on her ribcage was hardly bearable, she stopped talking and resumed her ministrations on his skull.

That night, the first caress she felt was that, wet and warm, of his tears seeping in the neckline of her nightgown then rolling down the valley of her breasts. Soon she tried to kiss him - although his weight hindered her movements - and he lifted himself up to claim her mouth.

“You said ‘no petting tonight’,” she teased him.

“This isn’t petting,” he countered, straddling her and kissing her neck.

One minute later, she was naked to the waist and she arched her back under his caresses.

* * *

Whether he was busy with Joffrey’s campaign or more cautious since Peitho had expressed her jealousy, Baelish didn’t visit Sansa for two days after he sent Evie to the cheap brothel. Peitho herself confronted Sansa once the news of Lothor Brune’s flight with Evie had spread, asking if the girl was involved in this. When Sansa replied Lothor Brune didn’t need her help to locate Baelish’s brothel at the edge of town or to steal a car, Peitho glared at her and that was all. Sansa knew Baelish wouldn’t turn to the police to find Lothor, Evie and the baby, so she assumed they didn’t take much risk as long as they stayed far from New York.

On a Friday night, however, Baelish knocked at her door while Sansa was wondering what dress she would wear to dance for Congressman Orton Merryweather, who had become one of her most faithful customers during the last weeks. Holding one hanger in each hand for she tried to figure out if her customer prefered green or blue dresses, she turned around as the door opened. Although the sight of Baelish grinning could only arouse her suspicion, she remained quiet and placed the dresses on her arm.

“Good evening,” Baelish said, without losing his smile, and he closed the door behind him. “Already preparing for tonight?”

She nodded curtly, put down the dresses on the bedspread and gave Baelish a quizzical look. _What do you want from me?_

“Change of program. I am going to take you out for dinner.”

“And what about Congressman Merryweather?” she inquired. “He’ll be here in an hour or so.”

“I will call him and explain you’re indisposed. Don’t worry about a lecherous old man!”

“I think Congressman Merryweather isn’t older than you.” There was a heavy silence as she regretted her boldness, after which Sansa took a step forward and said out of curiosity: “If you need someone to accompany you this evening, why don’t you ask Peitho?”

The grin plastered on his face didn’t fool Sansa; he was more nervous than he would admit. “To be honest, I don’t understand,” Sansa added. “I thought I wasn’t allowed out.” Baelish tilted his head, becoming serious again: “I suspend the punishment.”

Coming from the man who was staring at her, the good news sounded worrying. Sansa swallowed hard. “What will Peitho say?” she insisted, her throat dry, clutching to the faint hope the prospect of his lover’s fits of jealousy would sway Baelish.

“Can I be honest? I don’t care about her opinion,” he replied bluntly.

 _Too bad._ “Perhaps you don’t care about her opinion, because… you don’t spend your days here, with Peitho. I do.” She folded her arms across her chest with determination.

Baelish sighed and crossed the space between himself and Sansa. Once again, she realized he was shorter than her and the high heeled shoes she wore that evening emphasized the impression.

“In my absence, Peitho is the one who makes decisions here and who chides my employees if necessary. I don’t care about a cat fight; I don’t want to know anything about it. That being said, if Peitho is so bold as to try and pick a quarrel with you, I want you to tell me right away… Did she overstep her bounds, Sansa?”

Avoiding his gaze, Sansa shook her head. He cupped her chin and bored into her eyes, but she persisted in denying the whole thing. “I’d rather stay here, and welcome my customer instead of making waves,” she explained.

After a while, Baelish’s fingers left her chin and combed her bangs with what was meant to be an affectionate gesture. She stepped backwards, suddenly out of his reach and walked back to the bed where she had left her dresses. _He should understand,_ she told herself, smoothing the fabric of a green dress and willingly avoiding his unsettling gaze. _I’m not interested and I think he’ll do something foolish if he takes me out instead of Peitho. I’m doing Baelish a favor._

Sansa was underestimating Baelish’s obstinacy; retrieving a cigarette case from his pocket, he took a cigarette and lit it, while staring at the girl. _Keep pretending I’m not here,_ she imagined he thought, as he puffed on his cigarette, standing a few feet behind her.

“The other day I was thinking about one of the songs you sing, dear, and I couldn’t remember the name of the composer. I thought “This man is Sansa’s favorite composer: what’s his name?” I had his name on the tip of my tongue.”

Sansa swiveled her head, wary. _So knowing my shoe size and what kind of clothes I like isn’t enough; he inquired on my musical tastes as well._

“The interesting thing is, a friend of mine mentioned this composer yesterday and I felt stupid, because I should have remembered you worship this man. Irving Berlin. He’s your favorite composer, right?” Baelish was playing with the silvery cigarette case as he watched her, and Sansa noticed the mockingbird engraved on it.

“What’s the matter with Irving Berlin?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Did I mention that... Irving Berlin is one of the guests at the dinner I want to take you to?”

Sansa froze and, for a second, she had the impression her heart stood still; she probably looked funny, for Baelish’s face lightened up, his eyes narrowing in the process. _This is unfair. He knows I don’t care about his expensive gifts so he uses the one thing I can’t resist: music. I don’t even want to know what he did to get invited to that stupid dinner._

“Be ready to go in twenty minutes,” he said. “The blue beaded dress and the sapphire necklace and earrings I offered you.” Stubbing out his cigarette in Sansa’s china trinket bowl, he walked to the door. 

* * *

She was beautiful that night and she knew it; looking at her reflection in the mirror of the entrance hall was unnecessary once she had noticed Baelish’s look - full of lust and complacency - and Peitho’s glare - promising retaliation.

The girl wouldn’t be the only one to earn the revenge the madam’s eyes suggested; she didn’t seem to make any difference between her lover and Sansa, that night, including them both on her list. At some point, Sansa even wondered if it was safe for Baelish to come back to the brothel that night, should he want to share Peitho’s bed.

“So you never went to the Ziegfeld Follies?” Baelish asked once they were sitting in the limousine. He had just told her they would watch the show out there before joining Baelish’s friends and Irving Berlin himself in a restaurant.

“Mother disapproved, saying it wasn’t a place for a young lady.” _How does it feel to know you’re doing something that would scandalize your school boy crush?_

“Dear Catelyn,” he trailed off, ignoring the thinly veiled criticism her words conveyed. “You should see what this place is like, at least once. I mean this is also an opportunity for you to see what our rivals offer to their patrons.”

“Oh. Are we collecting secret information, now?”

He chuckled. “You know what, Sansa? Though you never lose your good manners, the tart comments you make once in a while remind me of your mother. Catelyn could be caustic sometimes.”

She rolled her eyes and tried to forget how close Baelish was, despite the roomy passenger compartment; he had slid in next to Sansa instead of sitting opposite to her. The darkness somewhat helped, but she couldn’t overlook his hot gaze on her. The rest of the ride was silent; as usual when she could leave the brothel, Sansa didn’t want to miss the chance of watching the illuminated streets she only saw from her balcony and to her great surprise, Baelish seemed to respect that - although he never stopped staring at her.

All too soon, the limousine pulled over in the Theater District, right in front of the New Amsterdam Theater; how the driver managed to park the imposing car at that very place, as the street was busy and as pedestrians poured out of the nearest subway entrance, Sansa didn’t know. Still feeling nervous, she took her clutch purse and got out of the black sedan when the chauffeur opened the door for her and Baelish. The driver, a dark-haired man average in height and build, ignored the other drivers’ toots: Baelish’s limousine obviously got in their way and they didn’t hold back their irritation.

Awe-struck, Sansa was still admiring the Art nouveau facade of the building when Baelish offered her his arm; though she found it hard to take her eyes off the unusual and florid architecture, they walked in the theater which entrance hall was already crowded. Once inside, the elaborate details in plaster and terra cotta struck her: the flowers, fruits and animals visible on the ceiling and on the walls of the lobby were all larger than life-size, thus giving an idea of abundance to the decoration. She wanted to take a close look at everything and wherever she looked she found reasons to marvel. The reliefs and the murals mesmerized Sansa and Baelish led her almost by force to the auditorium; if it wasn’t for Baelish’s presence which partly ruined the moment, she would have gone into raptures. Except in the Metropolitan Opera House - but the red and gold decoration of the Metropolitan was entirely different from the extravagance displayed there - she had never seen something so beautiful.

They took their place in the balcony, where the view on the rest of the auditorium was amazing; Sansa didn’t even know how she got there, because it seemed like she was floating through a dream. For now, she kept observing the details of the boxes next to the stage: the sculptors and painters had created an extraordinary sight, with fruits, lush vegetation and golden birds, as if the spectators sitting in the boxes deserved the same attention than the proscenium a team of artists had created. Pleased by the way she reacted to his surprise, Baelish didn’t speak and stared at the girl, smirking.

The show began and Sansa focused on what was happening on stage: dazzled, she recognized the English actor Lupino Lane, then she was mesmerized by the Ziegfeld girls whose risqué costumes had nothing to do with the dresses Sansa had sewn for the first shows at Baelish’s house. Although they were hardly dressed with their veils and their ostrich feather fans, the girls seemed to be comfortable as they danced and sang. _We must look like amateurs,_ Sansa told herself, thinking about the show she prepared with her companions.

Meanwhile, she gazed at a tall brunette who reminded her of Edna with her bobbed hair and daring eyes. Glancing at the program the usherette had given her, she deduced the unknown girl could be either a Dorothy Sebastian or a Louise Brooks. _Never heard these names before… No matter who she is, she’s just stunning._

“So?” Baelish inquired, at the end of the show, without noticing the girl was speechless. “What do you think?”

“This is so different from what we do,” she replied after a while, absentmindedly playing with the clasp of her clutch purse.

“Can you find inspiration in what you saw tonight?” Baelish was already getting on his feet and motioning her out of the balcony and downstairs.

“I don’t know. This is so… daring.”

Some spectators had stood up and lingered in the aisles, talking in small groups before going to the foyer; Sansa moved past them, then caught up with Baelish.

“Some parts of the last show we had were daring as well,” Baelish countered. “Did you know there was another review, on the roof of this very building, which was -” He paused and bored into her eyes, anticipating her reaction. “- which was racier than this?” Sansa wondered how it could be more audacious than what she had already watched. Pouting, she reached the flight of stairs and cringed when she felt Baelish’s breath on her neck. “The Midnight Frolics had a party-like atmosphere and if it wasn’t for the Prohibition that ruined the Frolics’ business, you could have seen spectators using their cigars to pop the balloons covering the girls’ costumes.” He placed his hand on her back to guide her to the crowded lobby, then outside; on the evidence of his smug smile, her scandalized expression delighted him.

The streets were busy in the Theater District and when Baelish led her to the limousine again, regardless of common sense, Sansa rolled her eyes, convinced that walking to the restaurant would be quicker.

He let out a deep sigh once he slid in next to her. “You know Irving Berlin isn’t his real name, don’t you?” he asked her, without trying to hide his contempt. “Some Jew coming from a god-forsaken hole in Russia. I tell you, Sansa, those bloody immigrants will lead this country to its ruin.”

She didn’t reply, but that didn’t stop her thinking. _Andrei’s mother was Jewish too and he came from Russia, just like Irving Berlin._

“That heartthrob of yours is a... Jack of all trades, but master of none,” Baelish went on, seemingly trying to knock Irving Berlin off his pedestal. “Some people say that he worked as a singing waiter in Chinatown and even sold newspapers in the streets… And do you know that your hero has no formal musical education? Even I, who took piano lessons for only a year when I was a boy, know more about music theory than this man.” Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and took a sharp intake of breath, trying not to shout at him. “Do you know he has assistants who work with him because he doesn’t even read music properly?”

“Do you know how much money he makes in a year?” she retorted, cut to the quick.

Her question silenced Baelish: if there was something he respected, it was one’s ability to earn good money.

“Listen, Sansa,” he said after a short while. “I don’t want to ruin that moment, I’m just warning you about this man.”

“Why? Is he dangerous? More dangerous than you?” she asked out of provocation. As she glanced at him, the car moved past a street lamp and she felt his stare on her. _Don’t push your luck,_ she chided herself, vaguely ill-at-ease.

“Certainly not, dear. I personally think the man is a fraud, but no, he’s not dangerous as far as I know.”

“You told me once you loved _“You’d be Surprised”_! I don’t understand how you can enjoy a song and despise its composer at the same time,” she protested.

“When I said I loved _“You’d be Surprised”_ , I meant I loved your rendition of the song, not necessarily the song in itself.” She sighed deeply. “Please don’t sulk, dear. This could be a lovely night.”

Twenty minutes later, they finally reached the high-class restaurant where Baelish said his friends waited for him. _As if a man like him could have friends,_ she mused, giving him a sidelong look. Once more, the chauffeur opened the door for them and when she got out of the car, she had butterflies in her stomach.

“Give me your arm, Sansa,” Baelish ordered in a hushed voice.

With reluctance, she complied and they walked in the restaurant. They stopped so that they could take off their coats and leave them at the cloakroom. Then, a waiter led them to the room where Baelish’s friends were already having dinner; Sansa heard their fits of laughter before seeing them.

The room was much smaller than the one they had crossed and there was only one large table lit with silver candelabra in addition to the electric light. A silence filled the room when they came in. Sansa observed the unknown faces, saw the group consisted of nine men and only two women, both older than herself. While the women looked like older versions of the Ziegfeld girls - party animals whose dark circles were more visible with each sleepless night but who kept enjoying the flappers’ life - their companions were most likely businessmen. _Except one,_ she thought, scolding herself for the stupid grin that pulled up the corners of her lips.

Irving Berlin was sitting at the end of the table and Sansa recognized him immediately; not that she spent her days watching the celebrities’ pictures in _Broadway Brevities_ , like some of Baelish’s employees, but there was something in the man’s attitude that distinguished him from the rest of the group. _It must be his big brown eyes: they notice everything,_ she told herself, blushing as he stared back at her.

“My goodness, Baelish, where did you find that girl?” a gray-haired paunchy man asked, making his companions laugh.

Sansa didn’t pay much attention to Baelish’s answer as she greeted the guests. Some of the men already leered at her shamelessly, as Baelish pulled out her chair. Swiveling her head, she caught a glimpse at her reflection in the mirror: the baby blue of her beaded dress favored her complexion. The rather simple cut of the dress, with a round neckline, sleeveless and straight, drew the attention on the silver beading detail at the neck, waist and hemline. She had chosen not to wear the sapphire necklace Baelish had offered her, but the matching earrings put the finishing touch on her outfit, with her silvery high-heeled shoes.

She sat down: there was only a man - an old businessman bundled up in his dinner jacket - separating her from Irving Berlin who distractedly listened to his other neighbor’s ramblings about the Stock Exchange. Though he was sitting, the composer looked short and slender. His dark hair was neatly combed with a side part, and his big eyes didn’t miss a thing as he swept the table. _He looks bored._

“You’re breathtaking,” Baelish whispered in her ear.

She almost jumped at his remark for she wasn’t aware he had leaned towards her; of course, he was sitting next to her. She turned to him and instead of smiling politely like she always did when his comments embarrassed her, she just held his stare for a few seconds, until he cleared his throat and began to talk with his own neighbor. What budded inside her at that very moment surprised her: it wasn’t the all-too familiar feeling of repulsion she experienced when it came to her boss; on the contrary, she felt strong and curiously self-confident because he had averted his gaze, thus acknowledging she could have the upper hand on him. _If only I learn how to play his game…_ She wasn’t sure she wanted to learn, though.

“So where’s the blond doll who used to accompany you?” the paunchy man asked Baelish, as the waiter brought some crawfish consommé. He was sitting opposite to them.

“She’s not here, obviously, Belmore,” he replied with a smug smile, his knee brushing Sansa’s under the table. “Thank you for coming with me tonight,” he said, turning to her. _As if I ever had a choice..._

The paunchy man Baelish had addressed as Belmore then cast a glance at Sansa before leaning forward. “You look very young,” he told her. “You can’t rule Baelish’s house, can you?”

“Sansa is a dancer and a singer,” Baelish replied, preempting her response.

“Oh, I’m sure she sings pretty songs at night,” another one trailed off, making his companions laugh.

Sansa blushed deeply at the innuendo and tried to stay as calm as possible. _Why am I here? What does a man like Irving Berlin do with these boors?_

“My Sansa is an artist,” Baelish stated proudly, raising his glass to his lips.

Despite the disturbing possessiveness his tone exuded, she sensed his pride was sincere and this realization left a strange taste in her mouth. _I guess his feelings are genuine and honest as long as I behave like he wants me to._

The waiters brought wine and Sansa understood why they weren’t with the other customers; the privacy the room gave them allowed the small group to drink alcohol without regard to the eighteenth amendment. Baelish poured wine in her glass and he looked fixedly at her while she took a sip. Oddly enough, his stare exhilarated her. She felt like a different girl under his scrutiny; a bolder, more audacious version of herself, because he gave her reasons to believe she could sway him. _Maybe it’s the wine… I’m dizzy and it’s not that uncomfortable._

Wine gave her the strength to talk to Irving Berlin. Although he seemed like a quiet, reserved man, he answered to her questions with a smile and inquired about her. For how long had she been singing? Did she play the piano? Did she compose tunes?

“This is strange,” she confessed, giggling. “We’re here in this restaurant and you’re asking if I compose music and…”

“So what?” he encouraged her.

Weary of Sansa’s indifference, her neighbor had left his seat to flirt with one of the two other women. _The one with age-spotted hands,_ Sansa thought, admonishing herself afterwards. Irving Berlin seized the opportunity to take the seat next to hers.

“It seems crazy to be here, talking with you because… I’m a great fan of yours.” Nervous, she bit her lip and felt like a timid little girl before her idol. _It’s not even funny for him: there must be dozens of girls pretending they like his music just so they can boast themselves later and tell their friends they talked with a celebrity._ “I’m sorry,” she apologized, “this is embarrassing. You’re here to have a good time, not to listen to me babbling about your music.”

“You’re not babbling,” he countered. “If a charming person like you enjoys my songs, who am I to complain? So, Sansa…” He took a cigarette and lit it. “What did you want to ask me?”

They spent the next thirty minutes talking about his music and his work. He confessed he composed a song every night after dinner, sometimes finishing it at dawn. After a few hours of sleep, he spent his days attending rehearsals, thinking about the song he would pen at night…

“What inspires you?” she asked him suddenly, ignoring Mr Belmore’s roaring laughter at his neighbor’s saucy jape. Sansa had swiveled her hips to face Irving Berlin, thus turning her back to the others.

“I don’t know. Sorrow certainly fuels my creativity… but, to be honest, I don’t really need something special to inspire me. I see creativity like a source that never ran out so far. I guess I’m lucky. I keep writing music because there are these tunes in my head - and those lyrics too - and I think I couldn’t do otherwise because I’m used to this life, now.”

“I didn’t think sadness inspired you,” she observed. “I mean… most your songs are love songs, full of joy.”

“Trust me, dear… You have to suffer to write good love songs. Even joyful ones.”

As the conversation wound down, she took in the thin lines at the corner of his eyes; they were the traces of his sleepless nights, when he dulled his pain by composing music. People said he had lost his wife only a few months after they got married and Sansa imagined he had indeed suffered to write the songs she found so moving.

“Do you remember Russia?” she asked him, all of a sudden. She regretted it immediately. “I’m sorry, I’m too curious. It’s just that… a good friend of mine comes from Russia too-”

A ghost of a smile graced his lips. “Do I remember Russia? You mean before the pogroms that forced my family to take to the roads? Do you even know what a pogrom is, Sansa?”

She averted her eyes, ill-at-ease, as vague memories of what she had read about Jewish immigrants came back. “It’s a sort of… racist attack, right?”

“They burned down our houses, Sansa; I guess you can call that a racist attack. I’m afraid I don’t remember anything before that night.” He chuckled, irony pulling up the corners of his mouth. “It reminds me of a story one of my childhood friends loves to tell. The man is a bit older than me and he plays the violin. We both lived in the Lower East Side when we were younger, until he was hired in an orchestra and became first violin. Quite a success story, right? Anyway, a few months ago, a reporter asked him why he had chosen to play the violin instead of another instrument. Do you know what my friend replied?” Smiling, Irving Berlin leaned towards her; Sansa shook her head.

“When people wake you up in the dead of night and try to burn down your shtetl, a violin is easier to carry than a double bass.” Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. “And now you’re asking yourself how I can joke about pogroms,” he said, observing her reaction. “If we don’t, if we complain about our fate, if we let this define who we are, we let the people who killed our neighbors win. We can’t let them win.”

Still shocked, Sansa remained silent.

“Why were we talking about all this?” he said, shrugging.

Sansa laughed nervously. “I asked you about Russia. My mistake. Why…” She glanced at her neighbors, wondering if they paid attention, then she whispered: “Why are you here?”

Irving Berlin sighed. “Money. There’s this show I want to put on… I’m looking for funding and as it turns out, one of the men sitting with us became infatuated with the singer who will have the leading role… She’ll soon be here.”

All of a sudden, Baelish’s hand brushed hers and she had no other choice but to turn to him. He wanted her to sing something to entertain the other guests; at first, she refused, arguing in an undertone that Baelish’s friends were already having fun. She inclined her head towards one of the other women who had sat on Mr Belmore’s lap: either careless or well-aware Belmore’s gaze dropped in her plunging neckline, the woman threw her head back and laughed. Baelish insisted and to Sansa’s great embarrassment, Irving Berlin supported his demand by saying he would love to hear her voice.

“Sing one of our friend’s songs,” Baelish suggested, hypocritically smiling at the composer.

“Do you want me to make a fool of myself?” she countered.

Baelish rolled his eyes and exhorted her again. When the rest of their small group joined him and asked for a song, she gave in, exhaling a deep sigh.

“ _“You’d be surprised”_ is Sansa’s favorite song, you know,” Baelish said, addressing Irving Berlin with a smirk, as she stood up on wobbling knees.

“Don’t worry,” the composer encouraged her in a whisper. “They’re all drunk.”

“But you’re not,” she retorted, “and to be honest, I feel a bit dizzy.”

Sansa held on tightly to the back of her chair; she wasn’t used to singing in cappella. Her voice sounded hesitating at first and she even wondered if the men sitting around the table would listen to her. She nonetheless began:

_“Johnny was bashful and shy;_

_Nobody understood why Mary loved him._

_Everyone wanted to know_

_How she could pick such a beau”_

On an impulse, she stepped aside, grabbed the back of Baelish’s chair then leaned against it, pretending he was the man the song described. The assembly laughed. The woman sitting on Belmore’s lap threw her head back again while Belmore’s neighbor blew smoke rings, gazing at Sansa. She took one more step aside, thus beginning to walk around the table.

_“He's not so good in a crowd_

_But when you get him alone_

_You'd be surprised”_

Baelish, she knew it, took it as a compliment: it was difficult to ignore his smug smile and the glint of pleasure in his gray-green eyes once she was standing opposite to him.

_“He doesn't look like much of a lover_

_But don't judge a book by it's cover_

_He's got the face of an Angel_

_But there's a Devil in his eye”_

For the last chorus, she had almost reached her starting point and she was leaning over Irving Berlin’s shoulder, singing softly the lyrics he had written, as if she was making a confession. The composer burst out laughing, while Baelish sipped his wine, quietly enjoying the moment.

In the end, they all clapped their hands, one of the two women even giving a little cry of excitement, and Sansa bowed modestly. Her triumph, however, didn’t last long; the female singer Irving Berlin had mentioned stormed in, drawing everyone’s attention by complaining about her admirers who didn’t want to let her go and about the photographers who were waiting for her outside.

Irritated by the young woman’s affected speech and eager to freshen up, Sansa left to go to the restroom. Her reflection in the mirror seemed different, just like she had already noticed that night. As she contemplated the glistening of the blue beads covering her dress, she wondered what her parents would think if they could see her at that very moment, trying to adapt herself to her new circumstances, obeying Petyr Baelish’s orders when she couldn’t do otherwise… _But am I obeying only when I can’t do otherwise? Am I sometimes lying to myself when I say I have no other choice?_

Her heart sank when she thought of Sandor who might come that night and find her room empty. The notion he could come to her and be disappointed because she had changed her plans was unbearable. _He didn’t say he would visit me tonight, maybe he was too busy… Yet, if he shows up and if Rose tells him I’m out…_ She didn’t want to think about it. Discomfited, she opened the restrooms’ door and came face to face with Baelish.

She couldn’t repress a gasp of surprise. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, “I didn’t see you at first in the dark and you scared me.”

He came closer until he was flush to her. "I loved the song.”

She took a step backwards, bumped in the wall and chuckled, ill-at-ease. “It was just a song. I sang the song you chose.”

“I think it was more than that.”

Oddly enough, he tried to change his voice so that it sounded raspier. _Ridiculous._ What was ridiculous, as well, was the panic she felt in this deserted hallway. The kitchens were not far, the room where they had had dinner was even closer, but it didn’t stop her heart from thumping like a wardrum. She was alone with Baelish and he was so close she felt his hot breath on her face.

“Right now, you could ask me anything, Sansa. I’m not joking. Ask me whatever you want.”

A thick, dangerous silence filled the hallway as she mulled over his words. “You already know what I want. I want to go back home.”

Baelish hung his head. “For your own safety, Sansa, you know I can’t-” She swiveled her head with exasperation, thus cutting him off. “Ask me anything else. I know you’re angry because you trusted Meg and you feel like she betrayed you… If you want, she can be gone by tomorrow.” Avoiding her gaze, he was now observing the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

“You know it’s not what I want. I want you to stop the search concerning Evie.”

Surprised by her answer, he bored into her eyes. “You wanted Evie and her son to leave the brothel and that’s what happened. You won,” he said reproachfully. “What else do you want?”

 _I don’t want anything from you._ Her fingernails dug deeply in her palms as she held his stare. Now that her eyes had adjusted themselves to the dim light, she could see the defeated look on his face. What Baelish wanted from her was a twisted relationship, something he perhaps called love but was meant to be non-reciprocal; it would always be a power struggle. He would often be in control, yet Sansa could get the upper hand from time to time, like she did, that night. _He doesn’t even understand it._

“When you know what you want, just tell me,” he whispered, suddenly weary. “This -” he made a sweeping gesture, “This could be everyday life, Sansa.”

“You mean I could skip my appointments with customers and talk with Irving Berlin every night?” she asked out of provocation.

“You know exactly what I mean. Why do you always choose the hard way?”

He tried to cup Sansa’s chin but she shied away from him and they finally got back in the room in time to see Baelish’s friends getting on their feet.

“It was so kind of you to invite us all, Baelish,” Mr Belmore commented, patting his prominent belly.

Baelish tilted his head with feigned modesty. _So that’s how he managed to make me meet Irving Berlin: he got out his checkbook. He’s so predictable._

They all walked away and crossed the main room of the restaurant; the other customers widened their eyes and began to whisper in their wake because they had recognized the well-known singer who dated one of Baelish’s friends.

“It’s always like this,” the platinum blond complained once in the cloakroom, her voice quavering. Wrapping herself in her fur coat, she let out a deep sigh. For some reason, she looked at Sansa as if she wanted her to be her witness, visibly despising the two other women. “I tell you, darling, people get mad once you’re in the public eye,” she added, putting a protective hand on Sansa’s.

 _If you’re famous, how is it that I never heard your name before?_ Keeping her thoughts for herself, Sansa took the arm Baelish offered her and they all left the restaurant. It was pitch-dark outside and although the street lamps cast a pale light on the sidewalk, Sansa didn’t spot the three photographers at first; she was walking with Baelish, next to the blond singer, still thinking about her conversation with Irving Berlin, when they suddenly sprung, blinding the group with the flash-lamps and shouting.

“Billie! Billie!” one of the photographers called. “Look at us!”

Although she had been lamenting her fate earlier, the singer stopped and struck a pose. Before Sansa could understand what was going on, the three photographers were gone and Baelish’s friends burst out laughing; whether they found the situation funny or were simply too drunk not to laugh for stupid reasons, Sansa couldn’t tell.

“Well,” Baelish told her with a smirk, “I think we’ll be in tomorrow’s newspaper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few things about Sansa's conversation with Irving Berlin...
> 
> Pogrom: a violent riot aimed at massacre or persecution of an ethnic or religious group, particularly one aimed at Jews. The term originally entered the English language to describe 19th- and 20th-century attacks on Jews in the Russian Empire.
> 
> Shtetl: a small town with a large Jewish population. Shtetls existed in Central and Eastern Europe before the Holocaust and they were mainly found in the Russian Empire, the Congress Kingdom of Poland, Galicia and Romania.
> 
> You can find more info about this fic on tumblr: asimplylucia.


	22. Peitho Sees Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peitho chuckled, and in the large bedroom, the way her laugh resonated only increased Sansa’s desire to flee.   
> “You think you have a right to reject me, baby? Did you convince yourself that, because Petyr whisked you away last night, you can look down on me?” Sansa tried to deny her accusations, but Peitho didn’t listen to her. “I know everything. I know he wants you badly and I know nothing happened last night, because you’re far from being stupid and you spurned his advances. Clever girl. You pretend you want to show me respect, but by rejecting him, you made sure he would keep desiring you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a long time since I updated. My humblest apologies. As usual, the lovely Underthenorthernlights beta read this chapter.
> 
> Warning for violence, violence against women, mentions of rape, prostitution and sexual themes: if you don’t feel comfortable with these themes, please don’t read this update.

The pressure behind her eyes was uncomfortable, to say the least. The thick velvet curtains didn’t obscure the bright morning sun, so Sansa rolled over in bed, seeking the illusory shelter darkness could give her for a few more minutes, if only she had her back to the large window. She knew she couldn’t stay any longer in bed and that certainty made her whine: if the sun was high in the sky, she should be up, ready to face the real world.

Just like she did when she was a little girl obsessed with the idea of perfection, she had woken up that morning with a vague feeling of uneasiness. When she was eight, she would curl under the blankets and wonder why this dull sensation of discomfort took hold of her until she remembered she had a Calculus lesson even if the multiplication table was still a mystery for her.

That morning, there was no Calculus exam, but something much more insidious awaited her: the jealousy of a woman who feared her reign was over because her lover had taken Sansa to dinner instead of her the night before. _Why did I drink? What kind of pleasure did I find in sipping red wine?_ Sansa rubbed a hand over her face and pushed back the covers with exasperation. _Get up. Get. Up._

When she left the cocoon of her bed, she was unsteady and she knew the dull headache wouldn’t disappear before a few hours past. She nevertheless put on her dressing gown, took some clothes and headed to the bathroom. When she came back from the bathroom, fully clothed and ready to face Peitho’s wrath, she opened the bedroom door and almost bumped into Meg.

An unpleasant smile lit the dark-haired girl’s face. “Congratulations, Sansa. Thought you would never learn how to play the game after you tried to help Evie escape. I was wrong… Level with me, now: did Baelish spend the night with you?”

Her question made Sansa break out into a cold sweat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Apart from Peitho, none of the girls had seen her leaving the house with Baelish. _Did Peitho tell the girls? Did she make a scene yesterday night?_

“Oh, please. Spare me. You really thought your ritzy dinner with Baelish would remain a secret, now that your picture is in the newspaper? Did you really meet Billie Seidel, by the way?”

Sansa swallowed hard. _So the picture those photographers took is in the newspaper and people can recognize me next to that famous singer I’m the only person in New York not to idolize… They can see me offering my arm to Baelish._ She tried to imagine Peitho’s reaction if the woman had already read the news, but she squeezed her eyes shut, frightened by the images churning in her head. The consequences on the madam’s spirit could only be devastating, resulting in fits of temper and perhaps attempts to hurt Sansa. _Or herself._

“Enjoy the moment, girl,” Meg advised her. “You may feel like you’re the Queen of Sheba right now, but I’m not ready to let you have the last word.”

Trying to mimic gentility, Meg tilted her head, showed a clean pair of heels and walked downstairs. Sansa hesitated, then decided she didn’t have time for breakfast and crossed the landing to knock at Peitho’s door. A short silence ensued, then she heard the madam’s contralto voice: “Please come in!”

To Sansa’s great astonishment, the curtains had been moved aside so that the bedroom was flooded with bright morning light. Peitho still wore her satin kimono, but she was sitting in front of her dressing table, untangling her long blond hair.

“I thought you would sleep in today, so I got up before your arrival and I already took a bath,” the madam explained. “Did you sleep well?”

_She doesn’t sound angry at all._ Sansa took tentative steps towards her and positioned herself behind the blond woman, then took the hair brush - a heavy, enamel hair brush with soft bristles - from the madam’s hand. Brushing Peitho’s hair was something familiar now, and rather pleasant, yet her exchange with Meg made Sansa feel uncomfortable, so she kept her eyes downcast.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she finally replied to Peitho’s question. “How are you doing today?”

“Everything is fine,” Peitho answered. “The sun is bright, this morning.”

Something in her tone belied her words and after she realized that, Sansa glanced at the madam’s reflection in the mirror. The dark circles around her eyes were more visible that day so she couldn’t help thinking the blond woman had tossed and turned all night long. _There is something amiss._ The fact Peitho acted as if nothing had happened only increased Sansa’s fears.

She let her eyes fall from the mirror and drift back to Peitho’s hair when something caught her attention in the periphery of her vision. On top of the chest of drawers, on Sansa’s right, someone had placed the folded newspaper but the visible creases proved it had been read. _She knows._

“I assume you two had fun last night,” the madam trailed off, smiling at Sansa through her reflection in the mirror.

Sansa bit her lower lip then settled for honesty: “We watched the Ziegfeld Follies’ revue at the New Amsterdam Theater, then we had supper with Mr Baelish’s friends-”

“‘Mr Baelish?’ Do you still call him that?” Peitho cut her off, chuckling softly. “You can call him Petyr when we’re alone.”

Surprised and ill-at-ease, Sansa chose to ignore her remark and went on: “I had a good time. I even met Irving Berlin.”

“Irving Berlin? Who’s that person? I thought you had met Billie Seidel last night.” Peitho showed the newspaper on top of the chest of drawers with an incline of her head.

“Irving Berlin is a songwriter and a composer. _“You’d Be Surprised”_ is one of his biggest hits. He had dinner with us.”

“Oh, maybe,” the madam said distractedly. “The newspaper doesn’t mention him.”

She tried to remember what had happened after they left the restaurant the night before although Sansa’s relative giddiness made it more complicated; the chauffeur had taken them back to Baelish’s house, then Baelish had talked with the Mad Mouse in the entrance hall, making sure everything was alright. Sansa was already dead tired at that moment; Baelish had led her to her bedroom, he had taken his leave and she had seen him pushing Peitho’s door open. _He slept here with Peitho,_ she told herself. _So maybe he talked to her, maybe he reassured her and I’m worrying about nothing._

She resumed her ministrations on Peitho’s hair, brushing the shiny locks and wondering what kind of hairstyle the madam would like.

“Did you decide what dress you’re going to wear, today?” Sansa inquired. “Do you want waves in your hair?”

“You’ll do whatever you want,” Peitho replied with a caressing tone, butting the back of her head against the girl’s hand. “I trust you, darling Sansa.”

Her remark forced a smile out of her and Sansa felt confident enough to ask: “So you’re not angry at me?” 

“Of course not. Why would I be angry at you?” 

The madam rose to her feet, chose a pink dress and silky underwear in her closet, then she undid the belt of her kimono that fell to the carpeted floor. As she always did when Peitho changed clothes in front of her, Sansa averted her eyes and she instinctively began to arrange the hair brush, the small hand mirror and the other items Peitho kept on her dressing table.

“Sansa?” Peitho suddenly called behind her. “Look at me, please. 

Sansa complied, spun on her heels and instantly blushed: the madam only wore a pair of step-in panties and was naked to the waist. Unabashed, she took her time to cross the room, graceful as a feline, and she planted herself in front of Sansa. Despite her uneasiness - or perhaps because of it - Sansa couldn’t help glancing at the blond woman’s bare chest; on her small yet firm breasts, light brown nipples contrasted with the creamy tone of her skin. At that very moment, Peitho was the image of lust, the embodiment of seduction. _Like the greek goddess Peitho._

“Look at me,” Peitho repeated, “and tell me what you think.”

Sansa swallowed painfully and muttered after a while: “You look beautiful. You are a beautiful woman.”

Bringing her hands on her hips, Peitho threw her head back and laughed softly. “I’m a beautiful woman _in her mid-thirties_. But that’s not the point.” She positioned herself behind Sansa as if she wanted to scrutinize the girl; disconcerted, Sansa turned her head to see what she was doing, then she gave up and kept her eyes downcast, ashamed by the notion Peitho was leering at her.

“Do you sometimes touch yourself, Sansa?”

The question surprised her so much, Sansa thought she had misunderstood the madam’s words. Panicked, she swiveled her head again and saw Peitho pacing behind her; at that very moment, the mad look on the woman’s face shocked Sansa far more than her nakedness.

“Do you touch yourself, girl?” Peitho insisted, her tone sending a shiver down Sansa’s spine.

“No.” _I don’t need to. Sandor’s caresses are enough._

“Do you know what’s the day, today?” the madam went on. “March the 1st. Which means you’ll stop dancing and you’ll find other ways to entertain men by the end of the month. Petyr confirmed it. What do you think your first night as a prostitute is going to be like?”

Sansa didn’t find the strength to reply; words were stuck in her throat and she felt her fingernails digging in the soft flesh of her palm.

“Men can be violent, Sansa. Whoever buys your virginity that night will be most likely drunk and eager to enjoy his new plaything: you. There’ll be no way out. That’s why I thought I would offer you my help.”

_She’s crazy,_ Sansa mused, when Peitho planted herself in front of her again and brushed her cheek. Taking one more step before Sansa could react, she grabbed the girl’s hips not ungently, yet her intention was clear.

“Take off your clothes,” she commanded in an undertone. “You’re going to like this and I’m doing you a favor considering what awaits you the night your virginity is sold.”

Sansa wriggled away from her, took two steps back and almost stumbled in the process. “Stop it!” she hissed.

Undeterred, Peitho shook her head with a sigh. “Alright. Maybe my offer was a bit too forward. I don’t intend to hurt you. Quite the contrary. We can cuddle on the bed for a while before…” She paused, rather theatrically, arching an eyebrow, then whispered: “Before getting down to business.” A feverish look in her dark eyes, she smiled and once more narrowed the space between herself and Sansa. Glancing down at her naked chest, she began to stroke the light brown skin of her areola and exhaled a deep sigh. “I bet you want to touch.”

“I said no!” the girl spat, louder this time. “I’m not interested.”

“Do you know what your first night with a man will be like, all things considered?” Peitho added, hands on her hips again, her tone now more aggressive than flirtatious. “A rape, that’s what it’s going to be. You think you’re a big girl and you can handle it? I believe you need someone to teach you how you can find pleasure in bed before a man rapes you and leaves behind him a human wreck.”

The madness Sansa read in Peitho’s eyes made her step backwards again. “Don’t even try to touch me.”

Peitho chuckled, and in the large bedroom, the way her laugh resonated only increased Sansa’s desire to flee. “You think you have a right to reject me, baby? Did you convince yourself that, because Petyr whisked you away last night, you can look down on me?” Sansa tried to deny her accusations, but Peitho didn’t listen to her. “I know everything. I know he wants you badly and I know nothing happened last night, because you’re far from being stupid and you spurned his advances. Clever girl. You pretend you want to show me respect, but by rejecting him, you made sure he would keep desiring you.”

“I told him he should take you to that dinner,” Sansa protested.

“He never intended to take me to that dinner. Petyr would have done anything to spend time alone with you. Why do you think the Mad Mouse stayed here instead of following Petyr yesterday night? Because he didn’t want anyone to disturb him while you were together, even though he hired that person to protect him. But Petyr confessed something interesting last night, when he came back.”

She walked towards Sansa who had stepped back until she bumped into the dressing table. Careless of her disheveled look, Peitho cupped Sansa’s chin.

“You know what would titillate Petyr, darling? Discovering you and me in bed, caressing each other. He’s convinced you would blush prettily and hide under the sheets the moment he would step in the bedroom. Then he would join us. His words, not mine.”

_It’s a nightmare._ “You’re insane.” That was all Sansa could offer. Her bottom lip quivering, she bluntly shoved the madam aside and walked to the door, only looking back to say: “If you need my help to do your hair, please call me, but not before collecting yourself.”

She hurried to her bedroom, closed the door and leaned back against it; only did she realize she was breathless and scared to death.

* * *

After her heated argument with Peitho, Sansa believed she had had her share of bad news for the day. Swallowing what the madam had confessed about Baelish’s fantasies would have taken her some time, but she thought she would get over it and reject in the confines of her mind the disturbing vision of Baelish finding her in bed with Peitho. However, before she was able to stomach her conversation with the madam, Rose came to her with disturbing news that pushed into the background both Peitho’s jealousy and the persistent nausea caused by her headache.

The old woman’s faded blue eyes looked disapproving that day; after Sansa let her come in her bedroom and offered her a seat, she sensed something was wrong.

“The Hound knocked at the back door, last night,” Rose informed her straight out. “I told him you went out with Mr Baelish. He looked out of sorts.” There was something akin to compassion in her tone and that compassion wasn’t directed at her but at Sandor. _Quite a change. She used to distrust him._ “Why did you go out with our boss, in the first place?” Now, Rose sounded reproachful.

“I didn’t have a choice!” Sansa protested. _Or did I?_ She was still uncomfortable with some of the decisions she had made lately.

“Well…” Rose shrugged, “he was disappointed not to see you, poor thing.”

_Poor thing? I can’t believe she just said that about Sandor._ Disbelief bordering on suspicion emanated from the old cook’s gaze and Sansa questioned her attitude, growing anxious with each passing moment. _What have I done? What is he going to think if he ever-_

Rose pre-empted her interrogation. “Hope for you the Hound doesn’t read the news. There’s not a girl in this house that didn’t see your picture with that blond actress and Baelish.”

“Billie Seidel is a singer, not an actress,” Sansa corrected.

“Actress, singer, I don’t give a damn… Anyways, the Hound said he will come back the day after tomorrow. Hope you don’t stand him up this time.”

Speechless, Sansa observed Rose getting on her feet and crossing the bedroom to leave; she couldn’t shake the feeling she had disappointed the persons she cared for and she didn’t have a clue about how she could make up for it.

* * *

 

Moroseness had fallen on Baelish’s house that day; Peitho refused to speak to Sansa, the other girls looked at her suspiciously and now that even Rose took up Sandor’s cause, Evie’s absence became painfully apparent.

The ambient gloominess even seemed to rub off on Petyr Baelish who came back from the Red Mansion earlier than usual, dragging his feet towards his office. When his footsteps resonated in the entrance hall, Sansa was sitting in the staircase and she tried to chase away her worries - without much success - by reading _This Side of Paradise._

Baelish spotted her in the staircase, took in her childlike pose - huddled up, with her knees pulled up to the chin - and he stopped in his tracks. “Were you waiting for me, dear?” he asked, full of hope.

Sansa’s mouth opened and closed once or twice before she managed to say: “I was just reading. How was your day?”

The moment she saw Baelish’s expression changing, from hope to weariness, then to expectation again, she regretted her question. He smiled to her. “I had a very bad day, to be honest with you, Sansa. I spent the last hours listening to the prize idiot who’s going to be our next governor insulting me. Your ex-fiancé never lacks imagination to humiliate people - something he inherited from his mother and his grandfather, most likely.”

He paused, staring at her long legs hidden under her pleated skirt and Sansa wished she could sink into the wall. “I’m sorry you had a bad day,” she offered after a long silence. As she was sitting in the middle of the first flight of stairs, her feet were at the same level as his eyes and he had to crane his neck to look at her. “You need a good rest, I’m sure, so I won’t disturb you any longer.” Closing her book abruptly, she raised to her full height, grabbed the handrail and began to climb the stairs.

“No, wait!” Baelish said. He sounded commanding, but when Sansa glanced down at him, she was struck by his painful expression - a deep frown and his lips parted as if he was about to say something. _He’s almost begging me._ “You’re not disturbing me, not at all. You’re exactly the person I need to spend time with, right now.” Walking towards the first steps, he seemed to regain his composure and he even chuckled.

Sansa stayed still but her grasp on the handrail tightened at once. _What does he want?_ The memory of her argument with Peitho a few hours before made her fear the worst.

Grinning, Baelish announced: “I think it’s time you dance for me.”

She didn’t react at first, stock still. _No, I don’t want to._ “Don’t ask me to do that.”

“You said you would. I know Pycelle came here and watched you for free the other day, why couldn’t I enjoy the talent of one of my girls?”

With an incline of her head, Sansa showed Peitho’s room, upstairs. “Peitho won’t be pleased.”

“Who cares?” he replied, shrugging. “ _I_ would be pleased. Stop looking for excuses, Sansa: I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

He called the Mad Mouse, ordered him to take the phonograph that was in the meeting hall and to carry it to his office, before turning to Sansa again: “Go back to your bedroom, change clothes; I want to see you in your new oriental costume, the one you wear while singing _“The Sheik of Araby”_. You’re going to do that belly dance for me again and again until I tell you to stop. Don’t forget your jewels, your make up and the record, of course. Be quick about it. I ran out of patience with Joffrey, I don’t feel like waiting.”

Sansa was aghast at what she had just heard. She went upstairs, wondering if someone had been listening to their conversation and she readied herself, trying to pretend it was nothing unusual, just a dance she was doing for some faithful customer. As she slid into her oriental outfit, details of her conversation with Peitho popped up in her mind and she wished the madam had lied purposefully, to frighten her.

In the end, she gave a look at her reflection in the mirror and she almost cringed. She was used to seeing her legs in those revealing harem pants that had horrified her the first time she had put them on, but Baelish had insisted to buy something new “to be the finishing touch to the outfit”: a beaded brassiere - Sansa would never call that itsy-bitsy piece of clothe a bodice - which left little room for imagination.

As he had ordered, she wore silver jewels and she had applied khol under her eyes. Her auburn hair was partly hidden by a silvery scarf. She sighed deeply, walked to her phonograph, took a handful of records, including _“The Sheik of Araby”_ Baelish loved so much and she hurried downstairs, more because she didn’t want to meet anyone than because she was eager to dance for her boss. The staircase and the entrance hall were deserted but the Mad Mouse addressed her a wicked smile when they met next to Baelish’s office.

Inside, an unusual atmosphere of disorder and carelessness proved how weary Baelish was. When Sansa came in, he had dropped his briefcase and his jacket on the desk. Standing by the phonograph, his back to her, he tried to remove his false collar, his quick and nervous gestures exuding impatience. “Oh, here you are,” he said, softening, when she shut the door behind her. “Come, I want to have a look at you.”

Sansa obeyed, slowly walking towards him although his lustful stare made her skin crawl. She put down the records on his desk then she stopped, leaving at least three yards between Baelish and herself. At some point, she gave him a wary look: she then noticed his parted lips and the rhythmic rise and fall of his Adam’s apple in his throat, as if he was thirsty.

“You’re a beauty, Sansa.”

He had finally gotten rid of his false collar he had tossed on the green upholstered fainting couch and he walked around her with a sigh, observing her from head to toe. Sansa felt weak in the knees: the notion he was eying her like Peitho had done that same morning made her limbs numb and prevented her from reacting. She struggled to find something to say, anything that would break the thick silence wrapping them.

“What happened with Joffrey, today?” she asked, her voice barely audible. “You said he was in... a bad mood. Why? What’s going on?” Sansa wasn’t sure her feigned curiosity would fool him, but she had nothing to lose.

A mirthless laugh escaped his lips. “If only you knew what drove mad your ex-fiancé…” Baelish stopped leering at her and went to his desk; Sansa turned around to see what he was doing. He opened his briefcase, took a folded newspaper and flipped through the crumpled pages before brandishing it. “Joffrey reads the gossip column. Who would have believed it?”

Amongst a dozen other short items, Sansa noticed a black and white picture showing from left to right Billie Seidel’s lover, the blond singer herself, Sansa and Baelish. If Billie Seidel looked at the photographer as though he was some cockroach she died to squash under her high-heeled sandals, Sansa was smiling on the picture and she seemed happy. _How is it possible?_ She had no idea she looked so relaxed and even joyful on the photo. _If Sandor ever sees this picture-_

“You understand, now?” Baelish asked, folding the newspaper with impatience and discarding it on the desk. “Joffrey saw you, he realized many people will have a look at that damn picture and he started jumping up and down like a raving lunatic. He said we had a deal concerning you, that you would stay in this place and work as a prostitute. He added - he yelled, to tell the truth - he wanted you to be locked here instead of strutting about in the streets. I think what incensed him was your smile: he can’t bear the idea you can be happy… Or perhaps it was your dainty little hand on my arm; he doesn’t like seeing someone else enjoying the company of his former plaything…”

Appalled by his words, Sansa’s eyes fell to the polished wooden floor where the electric lamps cast strange, ominous shadows.

“Don’t look so terrified, dear. Joffrey is mad, but he took it out on me and I won’t let him harm you.”

“Can you really do that? Can you really resist someone you work for?” she asked, too scared by Joffrey to notice she was dangerously questioning Baelish’s influence.

He snorted and his knuckles hit the dark surface of his desk with a thud, revealing his embarrassment. “Sansa, he won’t come here to hurt you. He’s too busy these days to take revenge for something stupid like a picture in the newspaper.”

_But if he does? If he sees this picture as an insult?_ Baelish had visibly no answer, so he changed the subject.

“He went mad, because some people can recognize you, thanks to this picture. The photographer ignored your name so he mentioned you as an “unidentified beauty”, but there’s my name below the picture.”

“You think my brother Robb could read this article?” she inquired. Hope and anxiousness interweaved in her confused mind. Sansa couldn’t decide if the possibility Robb could find her picture was good news or not; thanks to the newspaper, he would know she was safe - for now - and he would have an idea of where to find his sister. However, if he tried to rescue her, his own life would be in danger.

“I don’t know,” Baelish replied bluntly. “Do you people have the _New York Times_ and such in Minnesota?” He crossed the space separating them and ran his soft, manicured fingers on Sansa’s cheek. “Frankly, Sansa, we both know your brother should not try to find you unless he has a death wish. And Joffrey is a fool when he says you should be locked in my house for the rest of your days. Can’t I enjoy your company when I’m going downtown?” His fingers landed on her bare shoulder before tracing the collarbone; his eyes, following his hand’s gesture, began to roam over her. “Why couldn’t I enjoy your beauty?”

She stepped back, blushing, and he instantly lifted his hands in silent acquiescence. “Alright, Sansa. You’re not ready. You came here to dance for me though, and I will not take no for an answer.”

After a short silence, Sansa spun on her toes to take the records. “You said you wanted to listen to _“The Sheik of Araby”_ first,” she trailed off.

“That song - _“The Sheik of Araby”_ \- is the only one I want to listen to this evening,” he replied, going to the drinks cabinet and pouring some unidentified alcoholic beverage in a large, faceted glass. He slumped on the green upholstered fainting couch, straddling it. _The very image of elegance._

“Why?” she asked. “Why this song?”

“What do you imagine, Sansa? That we’re going to discuss our musical tastes and to compare your favorite singers’ talent? Am I supposed to discourse on that song to explain you the whys and wherefores of my choice before you begin to dance? I chose this song for two reasons. First of all, that little game between you and I when you sing _“The Sheik of Araby”_ and when you point your finger at me and… the other reason is obvious.” He showed her with a deft flourish, before gulping down half of his glass.

“I’m afraid it’s not that obvious,” she said, crossing her arms about her chest, determined to play for time. _Maybe Peitho will knock at the door. You never know._

Baelish chuckled at her ingenuousness, almost choking on his drink. “Well, it’s the costume, dear.”

Sansa clenched her teeth not to shout then, looking defeated, she walked to the phonograph. When the joyful music flooded in the office, she turned to him and began to dance. _Everything is alright. It’s like dancing for a customer, except I’m in this horrible room, except Peitho will be mad if she finds me dancing for her lover, except-_

Feeling like these thoughts could make her head explode, she tried to focus on each dance move instead. The way she wriggled her hips mesmerized Baelish. He had poured himself another drink while she turned on the phonograph but he looked like he had forgotten about the content of his glass and now only wanted to contemplate her.

She kept her distance with Baelish, still slouched on the fainting couch, his right arm resting on the stuffed back of the seat. Visibly bothered by the untouched glass of liquor, he unceremoniously put it down, careless of the marks it could leave on the wooden floor. Then, sighing with contentment, he sat up to enjoy the sight of her dancing for him only.  

When the music stopped, he silently gestured, so she shuffled towards the phonograph. “Is Joffrey often… annoying with you?” she asked, swiveling her head to gauge his reaction, while she lifted the tone arm.

“You have no idea, Sansa.” Staring into space, he looked weary and disillusioned. He bent forward to take his glass and began to sip the brownish liquid it contained, then he gave her a brief, sad smile.

“Tell me,” she encouraged him. _I’d do anything not to dance for him, including listening to him while he complains about the Lannisters._

Baelish shrugged, thus expressing he didn’t know where to start. Sansa still stood by the phonograph, but she had pivoted on her heels to face him. She took a step or two towards the fainting couch, hoping he would start confiding in her. Suddenly, something changed in Baelish’s gaze and he bored into her eyes.

“Nice try, Sansa. You’re not as bad a liar as you used to be, yet I can feel it when you try to fool me. Playing for time will get you nowhere. Dance, now.” His gray-green eyes glistened with anticipation.

She glared at him and went back to the phonograph, before beginning to dance again. It was strange to keep doing the same movements over and over, under his scrutiny. When the mock-oriental music resonated for the third time in the office, he demanded that she came closer to him and that she exaggerated her movements. Stretching her upper body, with her arms lifted above her head, arching her back or swaying her hips with a deliberate slowness, she gave him what he wanted and by the look in his eyes, she could tell he was more than satisfied. Only two feet separated them when Sansa carried out her dance act for the fourth time and Baelish shifted, sitting on the side of the fainting couch. She was aware he leaned forward to close the remaining distance between them, yet she held his gaze and for a heartbeat, a smile graced her lips, because he looked like she had broken his will.

Despite the rather cool air in the office, she was hot and she soon had to wipe her forehead. The notion somebody would eventually hear the music playing in the office - always the same song - and would knock at the door disturbed her; Sansa wondered if it would be a relief - because Baelish would have to stop torturing her with a stupid song about a comic opera sheik - or if the sudden coming of one of the girls would only ashame her. The ridiculous costume she wore and the humiliation she now experimented were enough and she didn’t need anyone to watch her disgrace.

As she mulled over her situation, she walked to the phonograph once more, guessing Baelish wasn’t sated yet and still wanted to hear the tale of a man who had very personal interpretation of how to woo a girl and how to win her heart:

_“While the stars are fading in the dawn_

_Over the desert they'll be gone_

_His captured bride close by his side_

_Swift as the wind they will ride_

_Proudly he scorns her smile or tear_

_Soon he will conquer love by fear.”_

These lyrics, she knew them by heart and because she now associated them to her boss, she hated them more and more. As she was standing by the phonograph, she turned to him and asked, even if she knew the answer: “Again?”

“Again,” he replied, merciless. There was something she couldn’t quite place about his voice at that moment, something that told her he wasn’t talking about the song and wanted more than just watch while she danced. The acid taste of bile in her throat made her cover her mouth with her hand.

“I know what I want,” she said abruptly, cocking her head to the side instead of obeying him. “You said yesterday night you would give me anything, that I just had to tell you what I wanted. I don’t want to dance anymore for you.” It was risky to voice out loud her request; she knew it, but she told him all the same, her tone somewhat sulky.

He chuckled, tilting his head backwards: “You think this is how things work? I must have been too easy-going with you, to let you think you can get off lightly. You’ll stay here and you’ll dance for me until I tell you to stop, because what matters is my good pleasure. That being said, I’m ready to hear any other request. You know I mean it, Sansa.”

His head resting on the back of the fainting couch, he contemplated her, waiting for her reply. Eyes slightly narrowed, he seemed to enjoy the moment, although she was questioning his authority - again.

“When I command you to do something and you put up a fight, Sansa, you only make my victory sweeter,” he murmured, enigmatic.

Confused, Sansa shifted from foot to foot. “You said Joffrey was stupid to want me here, locked up all day,” she began. “I want to come and go when I decide. Like the other girls who have a day off every week.”

“You want me dead? If you had heard half of the things Joffrey told me this afternoon…”

Wordless, Sansa walked to the fainting couch and only stopped when the fabric of her harem pants brushed the dark gray wool of his pants. “Are these things important if I promise to dance for you?” she asked, taking him unawares. She knew there wasn’t anything in her attitude or in her tone that wasn’t provocative but she was past the point of caring; if he ever agreed on letting her go out of the brothel, she foresaw more options to prepare her escape.

Baelish exhaled a deep sigh and rubbed his hand over his face. “It’s a question of give and take,” she went on, speaking softly as she looked down at him. “You want to watch me dance, I want more freedom. It could be mutually beneficial.” She hardly realized what she had just told him.

“I can’t believe this is Eddard Stark’s daughter speaking,” he commented. “I’m not wet behind the ears, girl. Assuming that I let you come and go as you please, you’ll escape. That’s one of the reasons why I hired the Mad Mouse and Oswell Kettleback: I don’t want one of my girls to escape.” She rolled her eyes. “What?” he inquired, embarrassed. “Is it because I referred to you as “one of my girls”?”

“I would not escape because I wouldn’t be alone. If the Mad Mouse comes with me or if a customer takes me with him to some restaurant, what’s the matter?”

He chuckled in disbelief. “I remember a Russian man who used to visit you and who smuggled a baby right under my nose,” he said, irony lacing each syllable with bitterness. “Daddy says no. You won’t go anywhere with a customer.”

“What if this customer is Tyrion Lannister? He said he wants to take me to his favorite restaurant. Last time I checked, he still wanted to make an offer. You don’t want to cross him.”

Her remark had an immediate effect on Baelish: an unpleasant laugh escaped his lips, and Sansa read it as the telltale sign that deep inside, he wanted to say yes and only resisted to save face.

“Do you really imagine Tyrion Lannister, who lived a life of luxury so far, running away with me?” she heard herself ask.

The question sounded so absurd he chuckled again. “Of course, not! Still… I’m not comfortable with the idea of you, alone with Tyrion Lannister or any of your customers. Not for now. And to be honest with you, I don’t understand why I should let you stroll about in town.” Although his gray-green eyes shone with cunning, he had regained his seriousness.

“Do you remember one of the first times we met?” she asked. “During the first summer I spent in New York. You found me walking down 7th Avenue and you said you didn’t understand why I was “meandering” through this area of Manhattan.”

“You told me you wanted to immerse yourself in the atmosphere of New York. Are you sure we met in 7th Avenue? I thought it was on the Ladies' Mile.” Smiling, he pushed himself from the fainting couch and he bored into her eyes.

“I was naive,” she sighed, ignoring his question, “but I still want to “meander” through the streets, as you put it that day.”

Now that he was standing in front of her it seemed more difficult to hold his stare and she couldn’t shake off the feeling she was almost naked before him.

“I said no. Dance now,” he hissed. He behaved as if the incident was closed, but something in his eyes told her it was far from being over. He wanted to give her what she asked for and only refused because he feared the Lannisters’ reaction should she be found in the streets by one of them.

She obeyed. The same music, the same idiotic lyrics, the same dance routine that exasperated her now… Feeling ravenous all of a sudden, she realized the rest of the household was most likely having dinner in the kitchens, yet no one had come to interrupt them. She guessed the girls would question her later, Viola probably taking a perverse pleasure in insinuating or in describing with her colorful language what she thought Sansa had done for Baelish.

At some point, Baelish glanced at his pocket watch, therefore acknowledging he was late. It was pitch-dark outside, but he looked as if he wasn’t sated yet; his gaze became more feverish afterwards. He even insisted that instead of sticking to her dance routine, Sansa made the same movement repeatedly, swaying her hips and making her silver jewels tinkling in the process.

The expression in his eyes, as he stared at her dancing, struck her: she felt out of breath, humiliated and exploited, but while she danced and felt a jolt of energy because the song was almost over, he was the one who looked defeated.

* * *

The day after she had danced for Baelish, Sansa had done her best to avoid the other girls and their embarrassing questions about the time she had spent alone with her boss in his office. Lois had told everyone she had seen Sansa hurrying upstairs afterwards, still wearing her Oriental costume, thus making sure the girl would be the laughing stock of Baelish’s house.

Forced to hide herself in her bedroom - those who didn’t mock Sansa, like Meg, envied her and only Edna sat on the fence - she hardly went downstairs to eat that evening and she walked back to the second floor as soon as it was possible.

Whatever peace she found in the silence of her bedroom was disturbed by the girls stampeding in the staircase; Sansa wondered what was going on, mostly because the customers arrived later - it was one of the few nights when she didn’t have any customer - and she frowned, listening to the chitchat on the landing, until someone knocked at her door.

Rolling her eyes in anticipation of the taunting she imagined the girls had prepared for her, she walked to the door and opened, tight-lipped and wary. Her expression softened when she recognized Edna’s bobbed hair: the tall brunette had her back to her and she motioned her companions downstairs. She spun on her heels and smiled at Sansa.

“Change of program”, Edna announced cheerfully. “We’re going to have a private party and Peitho’s already calling everyone’s customers to cancel. You should prepare yourself and get downstairs. Peitho needs you to sing and dance.”

“Who’s coming?”

“Oh, maybe you know some of these men. They work for the Lannisters, and as far as I know, it’s Tywin Lannister’s treat. Tough guys who just came back from the Appalachian Mountains…”

_The Appalachians…Gregor is back._ The news drained the blood from her and Sansa leaned against the door frame, unable to reply.

Brow furrowed under her bangs, Edna sighed then executed a dance step: “Don’t you want to find some big six for your old days, Sansa?” She squared her shoulders in the end, thus mimicking the attitude she expected from said big six.

_If Gregor shows up here with his men, which is likely, you're sick, you're bedridden, you make up whatever you want but you stay away from him. If he finds out what you mean to me…_ Sandor had been adamant.

“I-” Sansa stammered. “I don’t feel good. I just brought back up my entire dinner.”

“You do look pale.” Brushing her cheek with concern, Edna tilted her head.

Guilt suddenly overwhelmed her and Edna’s trust in her word only accentuated her unease. Who was she to hide from Gregor Clegane and his men, while the other girls - the girls who mocked her sometimes cruelly but who also practiced with her and slept under the same roof - were forced to entertain them? Blinking with a pained look, she beckoned Edna inside.

“What’s eating you?” Edna inquired, once Sansa had closed the door behind her. “You’re sick, go to bed. But if you think Peitho is going to call a doctor for you tonight, forget it, girl. She’ll be too busy-”

Sansa shook her head so insistently Edna didn’t finish her sentence. “You don’t understand. These men are dangerous. If they are to stay here all night-” She didn’t find the strength to go further.

“Of course, they are to stay here all night!” Edna said, impatience making her voice high-pitched. Her eyes widened with exasperation.

“They’re violent, Edna. They’re outlaws.”

“Last time I checked, prostitution was illegal in this state, so… that makes us outlaws, too. What do you think, baby? Do you seriously believe a whore can turn down a man’s offer because she thinks he’s dangerous? I’ve dealt with dangerous men my whole life and so did most of the girls here. What kind of men come here? Bootleggers, dicks investigating on shady cases, palookas...” As Sansa showed her protestation by shaking her head vehemently, Edna went on. “Listen, I’m not saying you’re all wet. I believe you when you say they’re dangerous. The thing is, we don’t have a choice.”

Sansa bit her lip, torn between her desire to protect Edna and the promise she had made to Sandor; every time she revealed more information about Gregor and his men, she piqued Edna’s curiosity, therefore undermining the lie her interlocutor had so easily swallowed. _But I can’t let her take risks while a word or two could save her life, can I?_

Sansa wrung her hands. “There’s a man, among them, their leader, Gregor Clegane. Stay away from him. Don’t even lock eyes with him. And if you care about Peitho, make sure she stays away from him too.”

“You know him? Did he hurt you when you lived in the Red Mansion?”

“I know his reputation,” she said, noncommittal. “Twice married, twice widowed. The circumstances of his late wives’ deaths were not very clear, to say the least.”

Edna looked paler now. After a while, she dared ask: “Does your nausea have something to do with these men’s arrival? Forget it, it’s none of my business.” She turned around and slightly open the door. “You should go downstairs and warn Peitho yourself. I’ll back you up.”

“Will you be careful?” Sansa asked her.

Without a word, she nodded and left. Sansa followed suit and she carefully walked downstairs, trying to find where Peitho was. In the end, she found her in the meeting hall, perched on a chair in front of the stage: she was giving her last recommendations to the girls. Sansa slowly came closer, wringing her hands.

“Oh, Sansa, here you are! Why are you still wearing those clothes? Didn’t Edna tell you you had to dance tonight?” The madam, already clad in her best velvet dress, went down the chair and brought her hands on her hips. She seemed to have forgotten about her argument with Sansa - or she was good at concealing her emotions, the girl mused.

“I’m afraid I can’t dance nor sing tonight,” she murmured, her voice so weak Peitho bent forward to hear her words. “I’m sick.”

Suddenly Edna was there, intervening to confirm Sansa’s answer: “She threw up, poor baby. She won’t be good for nothing tonight.”

“What are we going to do?” Peitho lamented.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Peitho,” Edna sighed. She shrugged. “Nobody’s irreplaceable.” Her tone, detached and slightly contemptuous towards Sansa seemed to convince the madam who pinched the bridge of her nose with disappointment then forgot about the pale red-haired girl who abandoned them when they needed her most.

Although the meeting hall was buzzing with girls who readied themselves for the night and despite the noise coming from the bar - the waiters had come in a hurry - a clamor coming from the entrance hall drowned the agitation surrounding Sansa.

“Girls!” Peitho called, “come here at once, so that I can introduce you!”

The girls had hardly lined up in front of the stage, next to Peitho, that the heavy doors of the meeting hall flung open and Gregor’s men came in. _It’s too late._ Sansa hurried to the end of the row and hid herself behind Jo, who wondered what she was doing. Then, holding her breath, she observed the newcomers.

She had seen Gregor Clegane once or twice in the Red Mansion, but it was a long time ago, and she ignored back then what he had done to Sandor and to the Clegane family. What made her hands clammy and petrified her was also the certainty that Sandor, the man she had feared at first and she now loved more than anything, a man whose bravery couldn’t be questioned, became fragile and lost his self-control when it came to his brother.

As he strode the meeting hall, his men behind him, Gregor Clegane looked so formidable the girls began to whisper. They couldn’t find him attractive with uncommon size, his massive shoulders - even the tailor-made suit couldn’t hide the monstrosity of his frame - his slick dark hair and his cruel eyes, but some of them found him swell, because of what he embodied: a mix of untamed force and the promise of danger. His spectacular entrée had created the strangest atmosphere, made of awe, apprehension and thrill.

His men paled into insignificance beside Gregor; a bunch of petty thieves and thugs grinning and flexing their muscles to impress women. Many of them wore a grey checkered cap - the same cap, it seems - and Sansa wondered if it was a sign of recognition of sorts. Some of them, trying to pose as gentlemen, removed their cap and fiddled with it. _Lightweights,_ she thought. _They wouldn’t be so impressive without Gregor._

“Good God!” Jo whispered, and from a woman who was anything but a bigot, the exclamation revealed how dreadful Gregor Clegane looked.

The Mad Mouse was there too, and he had to run on his short legs behind Gregor Clegane before announcing, with a smug smile fit for a ringmaster: “Ladies, may I introduce the Mountain's men?”

“Where did they get this strange name? Is it because they come back from the Appalachians?” Dorothy inquired in an undertone.

“Their leader goes by _“_ The Mountain,”” Sansa murmured. Now that you see him, you understand why people gave him this moniker.”

Dorothy shot her a frightened look. Silence stretched in the meeting hall, as the men leered at the girls, already wondering which of them they would choose to spend the night with. Most of the girls did the same, staring at Gregor’s men appreciatively, giving them their best bedroom eyes. “I like the dark-haired one with a chubby face,” Jo confessed. She had seemingly forgotten about her apprehension.

Further on Sansa’s left, whispers were not enough for Viola; whether it was her new evening dress with long fringes or the exciting taste of danger that made the girl bolder, Sansa didn’t know, but Viola stepped forward and deliberately held Gregor Clegane’s gaze. Some of his men whistled cheerfully at the buxom brunette and by the devious grin on his face, the Mountain was satisfied the girl had chosen him.

Although Viola’s provocative attitude with Gregor Clegane had partially ruined whatever order Peitho had created among the girls, the madam greeted the customers and she explained they would be given a quick overview of the show before following the girls upstairs.

At that moment, Edna locked eyes with Sansa, silently enjoining her to leave. She nodded and began to cross the meeting hall, ignoring the men whistling at her, but as she got closer to the heavy doors leading to the entrance hall and to the staircase, each step felt heavier and more difficult than the last. Although she shook her head to get rid of this vision, she couldn’t help seeing Viola smiling seductively at Gregor, unaware of his crimes. _He’s going to hurt her._ That certainty made her spin on her toes and walk back to the dark-haired girl. _God knows she mocked me and she was unfair, but at least, I need to warn her. What kind of person am I if I don’t tell her?_

Gregor Clegane and most of his men were nursing whiskey next to the bar while the girls readied themselves before going onstage. Sansa headed to the wings where she found Viola putting on the costume of Snow-White. “I need to talk to you,” she said dryly.

Lacing her bodice with difficulty because of the dim light, Viola rolled her eyes. “What? Peitho said the little girl is too sick to dance tonight. Your nausea comes at the wrong time. Tell me something, sweetie, does it have something to do with whatever you did with Baelish yesterday? Maybe he made you swallow something you can’t... digest.” To underline her salacious words, she opened her mouth, pretended to shove two fingers inside it and mimicked someone vomiting. Some of the girls chuckled.

Sansa restrained herself from slapping her in the face and went on: “That man, Gregor Clegane, the one you smiled at… he’s dangerous. You should avoid him.”

“Oh, please Sansa! Stop mistaking me for a dumb Dora: I can see right through you. What is it, this time? You don’t want this big man for yourself because you’re “indisposed”, but maybe you want some of your friends to entertain him. Who is it? You want him to end up with Edna, so that your dear friend will enjoy his money? This is not going to happen. We’re birds of a feather, him and I. He sensed I’m the girl he’s been looking for. He was drooling over me just now, in all modesty.”

“He’s going to hurt you.”

Viola giggled. “You almost had me! Why don’t you go back to your bedroom and play with your dolls? You’re out of my league, baby.” She shook her head with exasperation, ignoring Sansa’s pleading eyes.

There was nothing else she could do; sick at heart, she left the wings, hurried upstairs and blocked her door with a chair.

* * *

 

It had been a long night and Sansa had tossed and turned, listening to every noise, stiffening when the wooden stairs had creaked under heavy footsteps - Gregor’s most likely. Her heart pounding wildly in her chest, she had heard Viola giggling and probably leading him inside her bedroom; she had heard the processions of girls going upstairs with their customers as the big hand moved around the clock but never did she fall asleep. Sometimes a thud possibly coming from Viola’s bedroom startled her, and she even considered to wake Peitho up, but the idea of her own helplessness rooted her to the spot.

She waited. To kill time, she directed her thoughts to the last couple of days and guilt ruined her last chance to get some sleep that night: she had played a dangerous game with Baelish, thus making sure Peitho would hate her for the rest of her days, Sandor had come to her the very night she wasn’t there and he had probably found by now that ambiguous picture of her leaning on Baelish’s arm. As for Gregor, she had failed to warn Viola about him. Even Edna, who had proven herself to be an unexpected ally in this house, seemed annoyed by her constant whimpering.

Realizing her eyes would probably never close that night to give her the rest she needed, Sansa pushed back the covers, took her dressing gown and carefully opened the French Window. The sky was a deep purple; she stepped on the balcony and looked in vain for a pink hue above the horizon, towards the East. She stood there, shivering yet unable to go back to bed, bewitched by the darkness surrounding her. The city was almost silent at that hour of night, the faint noises afar sounding like the snore of a wild beast. The cold seeped in through the thin fabric of her gown, numbing her feet, but Sansa stayed there a long time then, chilled to the bone, she gave up. The first ray of light wouldn’t shine through the clouds before at least two hours; she reluctantly got back well aware that falling sick would make everything even more complicated.

She waited again. Sprawled on the mattress, eyes wide open and staring at the canopy of her bed, she listened to the slightest noise, until drowsiness took hold of her.

The slam of a door on the landing awoke her with a start. Sitting up in bed, she tried to recollect the last events. What made that noise so ominous? Huddled up under the covers and cradling her head in her hands, she called herself stupid and scatterbrained for tiredness had dulled her senses, making her unable to remember the night before. Memories came back at once when the wooden floor creaked under the weight of a large man and she swallowed hard as Gregor Clegane cleared his throat and slowly went downstairs. She heard masculine voices in the entrance hall; frightened, she didn’t move and glanced at the clock resting on the console table: it was seven o’clock.

On the first floor, the hinges of the entrance door creaked then someone slammed it and Sansa guessed the men were gone. She quietly got up, took her dressing gown again and tiptoed to her bedroom door; with a wealth of precaution, she removed the chair that blocked her door and pushed it open. The landing was deserted and after glancing around, she headed to Viola’s door, still tiptoeing.

Viola’s door was closed - she could see it thanks to the first rays of light bleeding from the stained-glass window - but when it cracked open suddenly, the door moving on its hinges as if whoever was standing behind hesitated, Sansa froze. At that very moment, if Viola had sprung out of her bedroom, insulting her but unharmed, Sansa would have forgiven her right away. Her chest constricting, she nonetheless stepped forward until her hand hovered over the door handle.

“Viola,” she called timidly. “Viola, are you there?”

A feeble grunt was the only answer she received. Anxious, she grabbed the knob and pushed it, but something blocked the door. She heard the grunt again, louder this time and she realized it was Viola’s body that blocked the door. It took her two minutes - two minutes of anguish, imagining it might be too late - to half-open the door so that she could slip into the bedroom and become fully aware of Viola’s aggression.

When she finally entered the room and turned on the light, Viola was lying on the ground, naked. There were bruises and blood on her bust, lower belly and thighs. Afterward, Sansa guessed the girl had crawled to the door and tried to open it clumsily to find some help, but she was way too weak to reach anyone else’s door, let alone to explain what had happened. Viola’s face was unrecognizable with her split lip, her black eye and bruises from hairline to chin. Although matted hair stuck to her neck, Sansa noticed the purple marks left by powerful hands around her throat. Sobbing and trembling, she wasn’t able to say if Viola was still breathing or not. She fell to her knees, took the crumpled sheet to cover Viola’s naked body with it, in a derisory attempt to gave her back the dignity she had lost and shrieked when Viola’s fingers brushed her wrist.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa cried, addressing the girl lying on the rug. She wiped away the tears that blurred her vision. “Someone please!” she called. “Viola needs help.”

* * *

 

The doctor Peitho called was a thin a nervous man with a long neck. Peitho had chosen him because he was an acquaintance of Baelish. He examined Viola’s wounds with great care, frowning deeply.

“So,” Peitho intervened, visibly growing impatient as she stood next to Sansa. “What do you think, Doctor Colemon?”

The man let out a deep sigh then answered in an undertone, his back to the madam: “Two broken ribs, possibly one cracked rib, bruising… As for her face, your employee’s nose is broken and whoever did this also cracked her jaw.” He paused. “She’ll need to see a gynaecologist, to make sure the… damages... are not beyond repair. But you already figured it out, Ma’am.” Sansa clenched her teeth, appalled by his words.

“We’ll see what we can do later,” Peitho replied coldly. “Can you do something for her nose?” Brow furrowed, she stared at Viola’s face with repulsion.

Doctor Colemon nodded curtly. “How is it that nobody heard this poor girl?” he nonetheless asked.

“I don’t know.” Peitho didn’t like his veiled reproach, on the evidence of her forced smile.

The doctor told them they should leave Viola’s room. Glancing at Viola’s lying form on the bed, Sansa noticed she was crying silently. Peitho obeyed the doctor’s orders, the kimono she wore over her night gown billowing as she walked out, and Sansa followed her. On the landing, Jo and Meg waited for them, Jo’s solid frame blocking the way to Peitho’s bedroom.

“So?” the young woman inquired. The wet trail on her plump cheeks proved she had been crying.

“So, she’s wounded. What did you expect?” Peitho answered, slightly annoyed. “The doctor will fix her nose. I don’t know yet when she’ll be able to work again.”

Jo snorted, all the frustration and anger she had bottled up since they had discovered Viola earlier that morning suddenly exploding: “How dare you? How can you talk about Viola going back to work after what this monster did to her? Did you see her face? her neck? her lower belly? What are you waiting for? Will you let this man hurt another girl before reacting?”

“What do you want me to do?” Peitho snapped. “You want me to call the police? The man is Tywin Lannister’s pet, he’s untouchable. We’ll take some pictures of what he did to her and we’ll send them to the Lannisters. Hopefully, we’ll get a compensation.”

“A compensation?” Jo repeated. “There’s no compensation for what that freak did to Viola.”

Jo’s remark left Peitho speechless; she rolled her eyes, then turned her attention to Sansa who had remained silent so far. “The doctor was right. How is it possible that you didn’t hear anything, Sansa?”

The girl blushed deeply, unable to explain herself.

“What a cheek!” Jo exclaimed, furious. “Peitho, you sleep on the same landing! You could hear what was happening in this room as well…”

Hurried footsteps in the staircase startled them: turning her head to see who was coming from the first floor, Sansa spotted Baelish, his hat still on and his coat resting on his bent arm. “Why the hell are you shouting at each other?” he inquired. “I came back here to take some papers I had forgotten in my office, and you yell like you wanted to draw a crowd...”

“A customer attacked Viola,” Jo answered, folding her arms about her chest.

Peitho told him the rest, under Jo’s scrutiny. “We’ll take pictures of her wounds and bruises,” Peitho said in the end, “ and we’ll send these pictures to the Lannisters, so that we can get a compensation.”

Baelish blinked and let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Unfortunately, dearest ladies, my relationship with the Lannisters is not as harmonious as it used to be… To be completely honest with you, my partnership with them gave way to... strained relations, lately. Take these pictures if you want, but I’m afraid your request will be rejected, Peitho.”

Jo cursed. Sansa wondered if she should stay or not; something told her to go back to Viola’s room in order to ask the doctor if he needed her assistance in anything.

“Don’t glare at me, Josephine!” Baelish warned her. “You’re smart enough to understand we can’t go to the police either. I’d tell the Mad Mouse not to let any of these men come in here again. And remember something: no more catfight.” Smug as ever, he pointed at Jo and Peitho and slowly walked backwards. His display of severity was a joke, but none of them commented his speech. “What’s wrong with you, Sansa? You’re pallid, this morning,” he added.

“She was sick,” Peitho explained before Baelish retreated downstairs, her words conveying reproach and disdain in equal parts. “What were we at?” she asked the girls. “Oh, I remember now. Sansa didn’t hear anything that night.”

“I know what happened,” Meg replied, pre-empting Sansa’s answer. “There was a stocking on Viola’s bed, with some blood on it. I think he gagged her with it. I’m pretty sure, you’ll find saliva on it-”

“How lucky am I!” Peitho hissed, irony lacing each syllable. “We have a detective among us. Meg, can you do me a favor and stop talking for the rest of the day?”

“I’m going to check on Viola,” Sansa mumbled, thinking she would be the next one to face Peitho’s seething rage.

“Please go, sweetheart,” Peitho went on. “If Meg fancies that she is Sherlock Holmes, you certainly can be our Florence Nightingale.” Ignoring her sarcasm, Sansa headed to Viola’s room.

* * *

She had spent the day with Jo, taking care of Viola, giving her some water, feeding her with chicken stock, trying to anticipate her needs - with her cracked jaw, Viola wouldn’t be able to speak before a few days. Whether she was grateful of what she did for her or simply too weak to protest, Sansa couldn’t tell: Viola lied on her bed, staring at empty space when she wasn’t sleeping.

At the end of the afternoon, Sansa remembered she had a customer that night - Congressman Merryweather - then Sandor would come to her, according to Rose. She retreated to her room, readied herself despite the mix of tiredness and despondency that dulled her senses and she welcomed Merryweather as if nothing had happened. The Congressman said something about her unusual lack of energy but he promised he would come back soon.

She paid a last visit to Viola - who had already fallen asleep - came back to her room, prepared herself for the night and turned off all the lights except the bedside lamp. Then, she sat on the bathtub rim and waited. As Sandor didn’t come, she told herself the Mad Mouse was maybe watching the surroundings of Baelish’s house, thus forcing Sandor to use the back door next to the kitchens. Her back was already stiff and she left the bathroom to curl up in the large leather armchair where her customers sat.

Anxiousness loomed with each passing moment; Sandor was never late when he told her he would come and visit her. She tried to read, but she couldn’t focus her attention on anything. Exhausted, she fell asleep.

When she woke up, it was half past two and Sandor wasn’t there. Bracing herself, Sansa began to cry, fearing the worst. Was it possible that Sandor had had an accident, that he was wounded, or worse? Blinded by rage, had he decided to confront his brother?

Sansa was cold, but she stayed in the large armchair where he used to cradle her once they had become closer. Wiping the tears that rolled on her cheeks, she looked at the bed: she couldn’t help staring at the spot where he rested his head at night. For long minutes, she tried to understand why he wasn’t there, lying on his back, one forearm hiding his eyes, his shoulder holster within easy reach, until realization dawned on her.

_Joffrey reads the gossip column. Who would have believed it?_ She remembered Baelish’s words, now. Like his boss, Sandor had seen her picture with Baelish in the newspaper and that had been enough for him to question her feelings again.

_He won’t come back. He won’t come back to me unless I prove him he’s wrong._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! The amazing comments and all the love I received about this story keep surprising me. Your support means the world to me.
> 
> Roaring Twenties Glossary (source: Chronicles of a Sassy-Starfish on tumblr)
> 
> Dick: private investigator.
> 
> Palooka: a below-average or average boxer. A social outsider, from the comic strip character Joe Palooka.
> 
> All wet: describes an erroneous idea or individual.
> 
> Dumb Dora: stupid woman.


	23. Back To the Red Mansion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confused, she gave him an inquiring gaze; he looked starved and that notion struck her. Sansa felt like they were back to the night he had sneaked in her room, after Meryn Trant’s murder: she was Little Red again and him, a man as unpredictable and potentially dangerous as he was attractive. "If you're that fucking Red Riding Hood, then I'm the wolf," he had told her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to Underthenorthernlights, who edited this chapter!
> 
> Warning for sexual content.

She cried.

Sansa didn’t cry herself to sleep, for she lain awake until dawn after realizing Sandor wasn’t there and wouldn’t come that night; she didn’t even doze. Exhausted and red-eyed, she got up with the first ray of light, prepared herself and did her best to conceal her dark circles. Then she gently knocked at Viola’s door and went to check on her, turning on the bedside lamp.

On the second morning after her aggression, Viola’s bruises were painful to look at, their dark purple shade mottling her olive complexion. She opened her eyes and looked at Sansa for a while, parting her still swollen lips as if ready to speak.

“Don’t,” Sansa whispered. “You’re still too weak.”

She had underestimated Viola’s obstinacy; in fact, the concern the girl read in Sansa’s eyes only spurred her to talk. “You look like hell,” the dark-haired girl muttered. She smacked her lips. Her elocution was still difficult, though it took more than a cracked jaw to prevent her from voicing out loud what she thought. “You could say ‘Same to you’. Just to make conversation, Sansa,” she croaked.

Sansa sighed at her bitter remark, then regained her composure. “How did you sleep?”

“Better than you did, I guess. I keep waking up every time customers move past my door, though. Nerves. And I have these nightmares… you see.”

Silence stretched between the girls. In the bedroom, disinfectant and drugs had left a sweetish smell.

“I fought back that night,” Viola confessed. “That’s how I got these cuts and bruises. Why he broke my bones.” She paused, unable to speak now that big tears filled her eyes. “I thought... I was going to die.”

“You don’t have to tell me-” Sansa began.

“But I want to. You know you’re the last person I thought I would talk to if something bad happened to me, yet here I am, telling you all this because you’re the only one - with Jo, needless to say - who doesn’t behave like I’m an outcast since I was raped... Ironic, isn’t it? My friends didn’t even came to see me and the girl I can’t stand takes care of my cuts and helps me when I need to pee. Why do you take care of me, Sansa?” In her tone, one could have found simmering anger and bemusement in equal parts.

It took Sansa some time to collect herself, but when she finally spoke, she tried to be as sincere as she could. “I feel responsible. Because I knew what... kind of man Gregor Clegane is.”

“After all the things I said to you, why did you even try to warn me?” Viola insisted.

“Because I knew he would hurt you. I would have warned any of the girls.”

Viola rolled on one side with a pained look on her face; startled, Sansa leaned over her to help, but Viola refused the girl’s hand stubbornly. “You warned me and I didn’t listen,” she croaked again. “Why do you feel responsible?

Sansa shrugged. “I don’t know. I always do.” That nagging feeling had first overcome her with Joffrey’s first cruelties, then with her parents’ death. Sansa didn’t know how to get rid of it: she sensed she was the one to blame if Joffrey shouted at her, she felt guilty because she had done nothing to prevent her parents’ assassination and now she was sure she could have been more convincing when warning Viola the other night. She hated her own weakness and that was that.

“Feels like you blame yourself for something else,” Viola trailed off. She winced in pain.

 _Don’t expect me to tell you what it is._ Her chest constricting, Sansa thought about Sandor’s absence and told herself she had betrayed him, unbeknownst to her. “Guilt is a pretty common feeling among whores, you know,” Viola went on. “We all believe we did something bad that led us to live in a seedy place where we spread our legs for a few greenbacks.”

“Guilt is a common feeling, unless you have no conscience.”

Viola snorted. “Conscience, huh? Spare me, Sansa. I need to pee, now, if your conscience doesn’t mind.”

* * *

 Rose rolled her eyes when Sansa, lingering in the kitchens after the breakfast, begged her to go to the Red Mansion and to talk to Sandor.

“Do you want me to get fired?” the old cook replied, dropping a stained tea towel on the table in exasperation. She turned to Sansa, grabbed the girl’s upper arms and shook her. “Have you lost your mind?”

“He was supposed to come yesterday night and he didn’t.” She only had to look at the woman’s widening eyes to understand she was the very image of despondency, with her pale face and the tears welling up in her eyes. Even her quavering voice revealed her distress.

Although she looked miserable, it didn’t affect Rose’s stubbornness. “That’s that damn picture, girl. You asked for it.”

“I didn’t want to go out there! I didn’t know there would be photographers lurking by the restaurant!” Sansa was so shocked by Rose’s lack of support she didn’t realize she was almost screaming.

“The harm has been done and you want me to fix your mistakes? What if I get caught?”

“The Red Mansion is only ten minutes away-”

“Ten minutes away, if you’re young and in good shape,” the old woman retorted. “How am I going to find him?”

“Ask for Tyrion Lannister, first. Tell him our plan is compromised if he doesn’t help me fix this. He’ll understand and he’ll find Sandor for you. Then you’ll give Sandor a note-”

Rose sighed noisily, cutting Sansa off.

“You promised to help me,” the girl reminded her. “I wouldn’t ask your help if I could do otherwise.”

“I’m getting old,” Rose mumbled. “Old and soft.” She untied her apron, took the note from Sansa’s hands with bad grace and retrieved the key unlocking the back door from its hiding place.

* * *

Waiting for Rose’s return was unbearable. If she came back to Baelish’s house empty-handed, Sansa didn’t know what she would do. She was a bundle of nerves and it became more and more difficult to hide her nervousness with each passing moment. Feeling like she was about to give way if someone else told she looked exhausted or sick, Sansa took refuge in Viola’s bedroom, saying the girl wanted someone to help her have a wash.

As Doctor Colemon had said Viola shouldn’t move unless it was a matter of necessity, Sansa decided to use a washbasin and a damp cloth; Viola could lie on her bed while Sansa gently washed her face and body. Once it was done, she could change the now soaked sheets on the bed, so that Viola could feel clean and sleep in fresh linen. What Sansa had minimized was the girl’s humiliation, because someone treated her either like a baby or a cripple. Viola frowned deeply as the damp cloth brushed the skin of her arm. Silent stretched, only interrupted by the wet noise of the cloth Sansa rinsed and wrung to get the water out.

“Meg hates you,” Viola told her straight out. “She’s a jealous pest and she’d do anything to hurt you.”

“Why are you talking about Meg?” Sansa asked.

Viola suppressed a gasp when the damp cloth got dangerously close to the large, purple bruise on her rib. “Listen, Sansa, I don’t know how it works,” she sighed, uncertainty lacing her words with exasperation. “You helped me, I help you. I want us to be quits.”

“Meg’s jealousy is an open secret. Thank you though.”

“You don’t want to make things easier, do you? You’re such a nuisance, sometimes.” Viola bristled, ready to bare her claws because Sansa’s reaction didn’t match her expectations. Even with bruises on her face and a broken nose, she looked threatening. “Alright. Tell me what you want me to do and we’ll be quits.”

Taken aback by the girl’s attitude, Sansa remained silent for a while. So being indebted to someone is neither familiar with her nor tolerable. “I didn’t warn you in the hope that you’ll do me a favor. I’m taking care of you right now to make myself useful. And also because I don’t feel like going downstairs. Your left arm, please.”

Instead of obeying her, Viola grabbed her wrist with impatience. “I’m not one of those people you gave alms to and you’re not a patroness anymore!” she protested, dark eyes shining with anger. “Treat me as your equal and let me do something for you or else I swear I’ll put you through hell!” She let go of Sansa and tried to catch her breath after the effort she had made.

Sansa didn’t know what shocked her most: was it Viola’s unexpected outburst or the notion people saw her as a snobbish girl who condescended to help her fellow beings? It didn’t matter: she was frustrated all the same. However, Viola sounded so serious when she talked about helping Sansa the seed of a plan germinated in her mind.

“Very well,” Sansa told the dark-haired girl. “Maybe you can... help me and do a favor to you at the same time.” She paused, observing Viola’s reaction. On her once harmonious face Gregor’s fist had made unrecognizable, she saw a mix of curiosity and defiance.

“Anything,” Viola muttered, braggart despite the discomfort Sansa noticed in her eyes.

“Yesterday, Peitho suggested to take pictures of your… cuts and bruises, so that Tywin Lannister can see what Gregor Clegane did,” Sansa went on. “She expected him to pay you damages for your aggression. Did she take these pictures?”

“Yes, she took the pictures herself, thanks to a camera one of her beaus offered her, some years ago. Anyways, it’s what she said while I was posing on the bed, stark-naked, exposing my bruises. She probably thought it was the perfect occasion to beat our gums.” Viola’s bitterness was tangible. “Why do you ask?”

“Do you think you could find these pictures once you feel better?” Sansa inquired.

Cut to the quick, Viola hissed: “Of course, I can do that? What for?”

 _This plan I have in mind… is it feasible or completely foolish?_ She locked eyes with Viola and began to explain to the girl what she needed her to do and why.

* * *

The cheap smell of grease seeping in the entrance hall, at odds with its lavish and somewhat attention-getting decoration, told her Rose was back from the Red Mansion, when she exited Viola’s room and went downstairs. _I’ll have my answer._

Sansa’s legs moved of their own accord towards the kitchens. When she came in, she saw nothing at first, for smoke escaped from the oven. The old cook was behind schedule with the lunch and she moved about in the kitchens, going from the large table to the stove, not paying much attention to the smoke.

“Now is probably not the time to bother you…” Sansa began.

Rose spun on her heels and glared at her. “The oven. Get that damn roast out of it.” She tossed a tea towel in Sansa’s direction and the girl obediently walked to the oven then opened it with a frown. Bothered by smoke, she did her best not to burn her hands while retrieving a huge roast from the oven.

“No, don’t put it on the stove, put it on the table… On top of a trivet, please!”

Sansa complied and gave the old woman a sidelong look. “Did you see him?” she finally dared ask.

“Yes, I saw the Hound. He went berserk when I told him you didn’t understand why he stood you up. He cursed, he took the Lord’s name in vain and he told me to go to hell.”

Sansa couldn’t believe it. “But he’s going to come and see me, isn’t he?”

There was a long, ominous silence in the kitchens. Rose flicked away the smoke with her wrinkled hand, then shot a cold glance at Sansa. “No, he’s not coming. He said you were better off without him.”

Feeling weak in the knees, Sansa staggered backwards until she bumped against the table. How did she manage to sit down on a tool, she didn’t know. Incredulous, her heartbeat loud in her ears, she looked up at the frail woman standing in front of her.

“Rose, it can’t be. He has to come back. Did you- Did you tell him how important it is? Did you insist?” Pain and disappointment made her unfair; somehow she knew she would repent afterward, but the words escaped her lips all the same. “I bet you didn’t even try to be convincing…”

The old cook shushed her with a glare. “I left the kitchens for you, I could have been fired because you threw a tantrum and asked me to talk to him. Don’t tell me I didn’t try. I even talked to that man-”

“Who? What man?”

“Tywin Lannister’s son. The dwarf. He said he would put things right with the Hound. You could have told me you let him in your confidence too,” she added, reproachful.

Although she doubted she could reach the door without stumbling, Sansa stood up abruptly. “What are you doing?” Rose asked her, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.

“I’m going to the Red Mansion by myself,” she explained. “Can you open the back door for me, please?”

Rose snorted. “No need to walk to the Red Mansion and to take risks. This man, the youngest son of Tywin Lannister, he said he would pay you a visit. After lunch.”

“Tyrion Lannister is coming here?”

The old woman rolled her eyes. “Yes he is. He’ll talk the Hound into forgiving you, or something like that. Lucky girl. Off with you, now. The lunch isn’t going to get done by itself.”

Sansa murmured her thanks to the cook while walking to the door; she gave her a last look and saw Rose shrugging at her gratitude, then putting the lid on a saucepan.

* * *

Staying true to himself with his good humor, his way to swagger on his short legs and that faint smell of vintage whiskey only perceptible when one came close enough to him, Tyrion Lannister showed up after the lunch, just like Rose had told Sansa. He fawned upon Peitho until she let him talk with Sansa without a chaperon. They silently went upstairs, Tyrion struggling to keep up with Sansa and he finally closed the door behind them.

“Who’s the girl who was spying on us from the third floor?” Tyrion inquired. Sansa had not failed to notice the brunette glancing down at them in the staircase.

Sansa heaved a sigh. “It was Meg. I thought you had met her once, here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember her, dear. I can hardly remember all the girls I fuck, so don’t expect me to remember those I don’t.” He seemed to enjoy the way she rolled her eyes as he crossed the room to sit down on the oversized armchair. “Is she your nemesis?”

Sansa walked around the bed and stopped next to the footboard, leaning against one of the columns supporting the canopy, facing Tyrion. “I guess you can say so.” Unbidden, the jaded tone she effortlessly took whenever she talked with Tyrion had came back; she felt her lips forming a pout. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, then she tried to suppress any trace of weariness before opening them again. “Did you see him?”

“The Hound? I tried to talk to him, but you know the man, Sansa: it’s difficult to have a conversation when he’s out of his mind. I'll spare you the details and the... colorful language he used. He’s convinced you... have changed your mind and you now want to stay here, with Baelish.”

Defeated, Sansa shook her head. “You know it’s not true, don’t you?”

Tyrion sighed and gave her a blank stare. “I can’t fathom why you would like to waste your youth in a brothel, with Littlefinger ogling you, but if someone had told me you would fall for the Hound, I would have laughed at that. You have to confess he’s an unlikely lover.”

“Can you help me or not? How long am I supposed to listen to your ramblings about Sandor before you decide to do something useful?” she protested. “Find a way to take me to the Red Mansion and I’ll talk to him.”

“Are you mad?” Tyrion hissed. “If someone ever sees you-”

“You know you can do it.” Determination - combined with fatigue - made her voice quaver. She took a step or two toward Tyrion and crouched in front of him: this way, she wasn’t eye level with him who was still sitting enthroned on the armchair, but she had to look up at him, for a change. “Please, Tyrion. You know you’d be stuck here with your charming family if I don’t make up with Sandor and if we don’t escape.”

“Do you have any idea how reckless you sound?”

She held his stare, unflinching.

“Fine,” Tyrion sighed. “So be it. Back to the lion’s den.”

* * *

While everybody thought Sansa was upstairs taking care of Viola, Tyrion Lannister flirted with Peitho and distracted her attention in the entrance hall; hidden in the kitchens, Sansa tried to convince Rose that she needed to get out of the brothel. When the old woman reluctantly opened the back door for her, the girl dashed to the street, hoping neither the Mad Mouse nor Oswell Kettleblack saw her.

She walked to the corner of the street, like Tyrion had told her, and she waited with bated breath: when his black car stopped by her side, she got into the sedan. Once inside, she allowed herself a sigh of relief before glancing at Tyrion who watched her closely. Sitting back against the stuffed seat, she then closed her eyelids, tried to regain her composure and listened to the roaring of the engine that raced through the streets. It was a short ride, she knew it and once they would approach the Red Mansion, danger would be everywhere.

“I thank you,” she managed to tell Tyrion. Sansa gazed at the chauffeur’s upper back she saw from the back seat, as fear crept over her; Tyrion followed her stare and pre-empted her question.

“Bronn is reliable. He won’t tell anyone you were in my car, because he loves the greenbacks I give him every week.”

In the rear-view mirror, Bronn smiled at her encouragingly.

Sansa sighed again; she felt like she had bottled up so much anxitity in two days she couldn’t stop exhaling all that nervousness.

“My dearest nephew isn’t in the Red Mansion, this afternoon. Political engagement. My beloved sister is out.”

“What about your father?” Tywin Lannister didn’t need to beat Sansa - like Joffrey - nor to humiliate her - like Cersei - to scare her. _If he ever finds me out of my cage…_

“Come on, Sansa. You know my father would never let Joff go on his own at an important meeting. He accompanied our political prodigy. As far as I know, he’s supposed to come back home for tea time, so you can’t stay forever at the Red Mansion. Oh, and Joffrey’s absence doesn’t mean we can take risks. There’s not a maid in the Red Mansion who wouldn’t like to report your visit to my sister if she could. Same for the henchmen.”

Sansa swallowed hard. The car had slowed down in a street next to the Red Mansion. The discreet garden gate almost disappearing under the foliage was one of the entrances to the Red Mansion. A chatty housemaid had told her once it was Tyrion’s favorite entrance when he came back home at dawn, after a night of bender.

As Tyrion had demanded, she wore a cloche hat hiding her red hair - as well as a part of her face - and she had wrapped herself in a brown coat: her modest attire should not draw attention.

Once he had pulled over and stopped the engine, Bronn swiveled his head and gave Tyrion a puzzled look. “What now?”

“We sneak in,” Tyrion answered. “Would you mind scouting out the surroundings?”

Tyrion’s driver nodded curtly, flashed a smile at Sansa and got out of the car. When he came back five minutes later, the lean, dark-haired man walked casually, hands shoved in the pockets of his overcoat. “All clear. Tommen is playing poker and fleecing one of the Kettleblacks in the foyer, but the house looks deserted. I’d take the backstairs, if I were you. Just in case.”

“Good,” Tyrion replied. “After you, Bronn. You’ll lead us upstairs.”

Sansa made an effort not to run away as they crossed the street, opened the wrought iron gate bowing down over the weight of the creepers, then walked to the red brick house. _How is it possible that I come back here, willingly?_ Silent and careful, her companions lead her to the backstairs. They were still on the first floor when a maid’s hurried footsteps startled Sansa. Bronn shoved her behind a door before the maid arrived, then he turned his attention to the girl.

“What’s that smile, Vera?” he asked the maid. Sansa couldn’t see anything behind the door, but by the girl’s affected protestations, she guessed Bronn had grabbed her wrist or squeezed her waist. _At the very least._

“Cash or check?” Bronn went on. Sansa rolled her eyes, exasperated by his flirtatious tone.

“Not here, not in front of Mr Lannister,” she said, simpering. “The bank is closed.”

“As if said Mr Lannister never saw you in a compromising situation.” It was Tyrion’s voice, now, sarcastic as ever. “Remember that evening in the laundry room, Vera?”

The maid gasped, feigning utter shock.

“Check, then.” Bronn sounded more defeated than he probably was. “Go now, before I change my mind and take you to that damn laundry room.” Sansa heard a noise she identified as a spank on the girl’s bottom and the maid walked away, giggling.

After a few seconds, Bronn allowed her to leave her hiding place and he took her hand with determination. They resumed their walk to the backstairs, Bronn being ahead and Tyrion bringing up the rear. The backstairs were deserted; after the third flight of stairs, she followed Bronn in the hallway, recognizing a part of the Red Mansion she hardly knew: the rooms where the Lannister henchmen slept. Bronn kept glancing around, making sure nobody was there. He finally stopped at the end of the hallway in front of a non-descript door.

“Here,” Tyrion said, out of breath. He still looked concerned about her. “We’ll find the Hound and I’ll send him to you. We’ll be waiting for you.”

“Somewhere near,” Bronn promised, opening the door. He suddenly glanced over his shoulder because footsteps echoed in the staircase.

Tyrion almost shoved her inside before closing the door and she found herself locked in Sandor’s bedroom. After a short moment of relief because no one in the Red Mansion had seen her so far, doubts came back and the persistent feeling of guilt that had overwhelmed her the night before, never really disappearing since then, made her look down. Sansa pressed her back against the door, her left hand firmly holding the knob until it left marks on the soft skin of her palm.

Eyes squeezed shut, she stayed there for a few seconds, before feeling confident enough to observe her surroundings. Sandor’s room didn’t reveal much about his occupant, at first glance, yet Sansa wasn’t surprised by what she saw. The room was sparse, with a grayish wooden floor and bare walls. In front of her, the old iron bed, long and narrow, couldn’t be comfortable for Sandor’s uncommon frame, yet it was made, military style, with the brownish blanket folded at the end of it.

Turning her head to the left, she saw a chest of drawers that probably contained his meagre belongings; like the rest of the furniture - a chair and a table - it looked old and had lost its varnish. The window, on her right, had no curtains and she told herself the moonlight had faded the colors of the wooden floor and the furniture, painting everything in gray.

On the small table at the end of the bed, the black, polished surface of Sandor’s weapons drew her attention. She imagined him sitting there, disassembling his guns and greasing them carefully at night. Next to the three weapons displayed on the table, she noticed a greasy rag and a small cardboard box probably containing bullets. She walked to the table and stood there, observing the place where he spent a lot of time, most likely. Extending her arm to the nearest pistol - she could tell it was a pistol thanks to Sandor’s lessons, but the origin and the characteristics of the gun remained a mystery - she ran her slender fingers on it, unconsciously seeking the merest contact with him, through the items he handled daily.

A bit confused, she stepped back and walked to the bed instead, where she sat gingerly. Sansa rested her arm on the folded blanket and soon her fingers kneaded the rough wool with impatience. She swiveled her head to the right, looked at the iron headboard and at the pillow, trying to picture Sandor sleeping there. She couldn’t. _He doesn’t belong to this awful place, he belongs with me._ In the huge bed where she slept, he had enough room to sprawl; there, he could barely lay down. Despite the starkness of the room and the obvious lack of comfort, he clearly took care of it: nothing lied around and he most likely opened the window every morning to ventilate the room, for she couldn’t detect the fusty smell one could have expected.

The sight of the pillow provoked something in her she couldn’t quite place, but remembering he rested his head on the mattress rather than on a pillow when he spent the night with her, she looked down at the sheet. White and non-descript, it was probably washed with the rest of the Lannister men’s clothes and linen, yet there had to be his smell on it. She fisted the fabric and pulled it close to her face, breathing in. It was there, in the folds of the cotton sheet, that she recognized tobacco, leather, and the undefinable scent emanating from his skin. Sansa was aware breathing in his smell was stupid and even inappropriate; she didn’t stop though, wondering at some point what foolish things she would be able to do if she stayed any longer in his bedroom, alone. Were her red cheeks a consequence of shame, a proof the perfect lady raised by Mrs Mordane still existed deep down, or was it just a telltale sign of her turmoil? She stayed still for a minute or two, forgetting her good manners - and her broken heart.

The moment the door creaked open, revealing Sandor’s frame, she let go of the sheet and sat up very straight, like a little girl startled by the sudden arrival of the grown-ups. His face was unreadable but the way he closed the door behind him - carefully but with an unpleasant cracking sound - revealed to what extent he was furious.

“Why the hell are you here?” he asked, staying by the door, while she stood up, ready to cross the room. “You have no right to be here. I don’t understand. It was fucking clear, to me.” He wore this mask of indifference and self-hatred that frightened her so much when she lived in the Red Mansion.

“Why didn’t you come last night?” she asked in echo, on the verge of tears.

He snorted. The contempt she saw in his eyes, now dark and stormy, spoke louder than words and hurt her with more efficiency. A sneer distorted the lower half of his face, twisting the scars on the burnt side. “I can read the newspaper. You didn’t know that, I bet.”

 _The Hound,_ she thought, trying to keep her resentment at bay. _He’s playing the part of the Hound, the only one he knows, because it’s the only way he knows how to defend himself._ Wringing her hands, she took tentative steps towards him. He shook his head slowly, staring her down. As she lowered her gaze, the girl noticed his balled fist and foresaw his violence. The slightest provocation triggered his rage; she had witnessed his fits of temper many times while living there, in the Red Mansion. _He’s not the same man anymore,_ she tried to reassure herself. _He changed._

Changed or not, he towered above her when she stopped at arm-length of him. The massive chest, the muscular arms promised only brutal strength and pain if she dared challenge the Lannisters’ henchman.

“Deep down you know this picture is a lie,” she said. “I’m not saying I’m proud of what I did, but I never asked Baelish to accompany him, nor did I strike a pose for the photographers.”

“You two make a lovely couple,” he hissed.

“I’m not his girl. Never was, never will be. I’m yours. Can you look at me straight in the eyes and tell me I’m a liar?”

She was determined to observe his every move until she found a chink in his armor, yet his features, expressionless, offered more resistance than she imagined.

“You’ll be far better in his world,” he growled. “I know it now.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

Under her scrutiny, his eyes had taken the dark color - almost as black as ink - that foreshadowed a surge of temper; jaw clenched, he failed to suppress the tremor in his limbs. Wishing to calm him down, Sansa extended her hand toward his forearm and brushed his wrist; he snatched his arm away with impatience and grabbed her upper arms, shoving her, forcing Sansa to walk backwards and to stay away from him. She nearly lost her balance in the process, but when his grip caught hold of her, preventing the girl from falling instead of pushing her away, she understood his resolve was weakening.

“Leave me alone.” He was begging her, now. The Hound’s scowl was still there, but his voice - _almost quavering,_ she told herself - belied his words.

She bored into his eyes. “I won’t. I didn’t come back here to give up so easily. You know it, Sandor.”

Hanging his head, his thin dark hair covering most of his face, he panted. If his balled fist still evoked all the contained brutality that used to frighten her older self, he looked like a broken giant with his hunched shoulders.

“I love you. Take me away from this place, Sandor.”

Sansa only took a step forward before he grabbed her waist and crushed her against him. She wanted to say something, to tell him it was over and that everything would be alright from now on, but his embrace was too tight. His face was wet with tears when he claimed her mouth. Sansa parted her lips for him, trying to wipe away his tears as gently as she could despite his unpredictable movements. Conveying all the frustration and despondency he had experienced the past few days, his onslaught surprised Sansa. His hands alternatively wrapped her waist, caressed her spine or her neck, lifted her until her legs rested on his hipbone, eventually squeezed a breast. They never stopped moving on her, as if her absence had been so long he now needed to map the curves of her body.

There she was, her legs around his waist and her pleated skirt hiked up shamelessly, while he kissed her until they were both breathless. Sansa broke their kiss and rested her forehead against his, eyes closed at first, then opening them to look at his face. One more tear escaped his lashes and rolled down his good cheek; she caught the tear midway with the pad of her thumb and wiped the last traces of his sorrow. With one hand under her buttocks and the other wrapping her upper back, Sandor took tentative steps toward the bed. Sansa’s body tingled with anticipation; she wished she could say something, but words were stuck in her throat.

Sandor stopped next to the bed so that she could reach her feet to the floor. With careful movements, he buttoned down her coat and helped her remove it. Her cloche hat went straight on the bed, with the coat. “I’ll make sure you leave the Red Mansion and go back safely to… well, you know.”

His raspy voice, next to her ear, made her heart pound wildy. She nodded, waiting for his next move. “Sit down,” he said.

When his words became scarce - even fewer than they usually were - and when his desire was so obvious she couldn’t ignore it, Sansa always felt weak. At that very moment, she nearly collapsed on the bed and sat up straight afterward, trembling like a leaf while she smoothed her skirt. Sandor looked down at her, removing his waistcoat and his tie, tossing them to the bed then he kneeled in front of her.

That was one the things he used to do when he spent the night with her at Baelish’s house - kneeling in front of her while she was sitting on the edge of the bed then taking off her sleepers with reverent gestures - except she wore no sleepers that day, but a lovely pair of brown high-heeled Mary Janes. He hesitated for a second but removed them, putting them aside then looking for Sansa’s approval. She nodded, even though she wondered what he was about to do. Sandor buttoned down her blouse, never cursing although the tiny buttons resisted his big fingers. Once the blouse was a silky heap on the bed, he slid down the straps of her slip and those of her brassiere, exposing her breasts. Lips parted, he caressed and kneaded them for a while until she began to moan. At that point, he usually made her lie flat on the back so that he could lean over her and resume his ministrations on her nipples with his mouth. He knew how much she loved that, but instead, he suddenly removed his hands from her bust, thus showing he wanted something else.

Confused, she gave him an inquiring gaze; he looked _starved_ and that notion struck her. Sansa felt like they were back to the night he had sneaked in her room, after Meryn Trant’s murder: she was Little Red again and him, a man as unpredictable and potentially dangerous as he was attractive. _If you're that fucking Red Riding Hood, then I'm the wolf,_ he had told her.

Sandor was still kneeling in front of her; his big hands landed on her knees. “Do you trust me?” he asked her, without revealing what this was all about nor saying why she should trust him. Through her woolen skirt, she felt the warmth of his hands. She nodded.

Taking a sharp intake of breath, he gently began to spread her knees; her limbs shook but she didn’t resist, and when it was done, he pushed back the fabric of her pleated skirt, revealing her thighs. Sansa felt both exposed and wanton, as he contemplated the top of her stockings, her garter belt and higher, her silken panties. _What is he up to?_ She wondered if he would give her the same caresses than before or if he would make her his, there and then, under Cersei’s roof, like a nose-thumbing at the Lannisters.

Running his large hands from her knees to the top of her thighs, he seemed to appreciate the smoothness of her stocking, then the bare skin, pale and smooth, a bit further. Her own skin looked suddenly pallid in comparison with Sandor’s tanned hands and that sight - his big, bronzed hands with the fingers spread out caressing the inner side of her thighs - was disturbing and arousing in equal parts.

After a quick glance at her face, he opened the metal clips of the garter belt, one after the other, then he freed Sansa’s legs from her stockings. As he unhurriedly rolled down the silky fabric, she wondered at the focused and even solemn expression on his face. _Is this something he wanted to do for a long time?_ Sansa felt like they were floating through a dream, and the moment he slid one hand underneath her buttocks, showing he wanted to take off her panties, she offered no resistance at all. At Baelish’s house, he lowered her panties but he didn’t remove them when he caressed her; Sansa felt like the last barrier between them disappeared. Under Sandor’s hands, the smooth fabric slid down her legs with slow movements, the caress of silk on her calves reminding her how exposed she now was; it pooled at her feet. She suppressed a gasp.

As silence stretched in the bedroom - only interrupted by Sandor’s labored breathing - Sansa observed the silken panties discarded there, making an ivory spot on the grayish wooden floor. After a few heartbeats, she felt strong enough to raise her head and Sandor locked eyes with her. Although he didn’t voice out loud any question, she nodded again. _Consent. Trust. That’s all this is about. Nothing else matters._

She had closed her knees, by reflex, yet she let him spread her legs again, obeying to the slightest pressure of his hands. Leaning forward, he kissed her lips, just once, before lowering himself and gazing at her nakedness. It was something entirely new for her and she felt vulnerable. Sansa had let him touch her underbelly, she had arched her back wantonly under his hands, but the notion he observed the most private part of her body as if it was something worth seeing was far more disturbing. Fifteen years of strict education and moral taboos crumbled in less than a minute. She fought back tears, listening to his breathing, waiting for him to say or to do something. Sandor Clegane had never been forthcoming, thus she wasn’t surprised that he remained silent and ducked his head to kiss the inner side of her right knee instead. His cracked lips merely brushed the surface of her skin, as if some of her shyness had rubbed off on him. A moment later, when she trembled with pleasure and surprise, he became more daring and he even ran his tongue on her skin, eliciting tiny moans.

He stopped before reaching her womanhood, his mouth hovering over her mound, tickling her with his hot breath. At some point, he gazed at her, looking for her consent, then he set to his task.

Sansa had once heard the girls talking about men who liked to please women with their mouth; the idea seemed incongruous to her and even disgusting, but that day, when she realized what Sandor was about to do, she felt like the first woman in the world to discover that pleasure, and she was grateful for that.

At first, he slipped his finger between her folds, making her shudder; he grunted his approval because she was wet, then he removed his hand to place his arms under her thighs and to hold her lower back firmly. _Now I can’t escape, supposing that I want to._ Sandor began, kissing the red curls, taking his time. When his tongue tickled her, applied pressure on her most sensitive area, she moaned, careless of anything that wasn’t related to her lover. The notion of danger seemed far away and even abstract now that the only things that truly mattered were happening in this bedroom, on the edge of Sandor’s bed. Oblivious of the rest, she whimpered noisily. More careful than Sansa for a change, he stopped abruptly, took her hand with a small smile and covered her mouth with it, then he buried his face in her lower belly.

The more he kissed and licked her, the more she needed to bite her lip. Although the whole thing had looked barbarian when she had heard the girls’ idle gossip about the way Orton Merryweather liked to pleasure women, Sansa admitted there was nothing distasteful in what she was experiencing; Sandor’s eagerness was visible, yet this evinced his ability to be gentle and reverent with her. Words he had told her weeks ago came back to her suddenly: _I’ll take good care of you._ What was he doing now, if he wasn’t keeping that promise?

She soon felt like she couldn’t stay in this position any longer, sitting at the edge of the bed, so she lay down on the mattress, one hand on her mouth, stifling her gasps, the other one frantically clutching to the sheets. He took the occasion to draw her legs over his shoulders and he cupped her bottom; this way, she was closer than ever to him. She felt weak and even limp, subjected to his onslaught, yet entirely willing. The warmth radiating from her lower belly, those sensations both familiar and new and even that wanton pose she had, lying on the bed, almost naked and her legs resting on his shoulders, all these things were too good to be ignored. _I’m not sorry,_ she told herself. _I’m not sorry for being caressed this way nor for loving it._

Sandor’s tongue moved faster on her now, applying pressure, flicking her, until she gasped. _He laps at me like a dog._ The image was tasteless, shameful for a well-bred girl yet something told her that was exactly what he wanted her to think: he was pleasuring her, he was gentle and delicate, but he was somewhat sullying her, or rather the image she had of herself. She tried to remain silent and arched her back when his tongue dipped inside her, bringing a different, consuming pleasure. Sandor seemed to enjoy himself as well: he stopped for a second, catching his breath and grunting against her. Then, as if this short break had made him more hungry for her, his mouth came back to the button of flesh he used to rub with his fingers; feeling him there, running the tip of his tongue over and over was so strange and pleasurable at the same time she wondered if she was going to faint.

And suddenly it was so good, she couldn’t do otherwise than pressing herself against him, begging him not to stop whatever he was doing to her. Shaking and unable to control her movements, she felt like something was exploding behind her eyes. She tried to cling on to the pleasure overwhelming her; her muscles clenched for a few more seconds and the fleeting sensation was gone, leaving her exhausted, surprised by the experience and sated.

With gentle, unhurried movements, Sandor left the embrace of her legs, raised his gaze to contemplate her. _Depravity. That’s what Mrs Mordane would have called it._ Too weak to make the slightest move, she didn’t try to cover her nakedness and her breasts. She was aware of her disheveled looks, with her messy hair, her hiked up skirt and above all that expression on her face. She imagined her cheeks were aflame and her eyes shone with that peculiar glimmer she had seen in her mirror after Sandor’s last visits. Depravity. _How is it that I don’t feel ashamed?_ A part of her wanted to giggle for no reason and she bit her lip again.

In Sandor’s gray eyes, there wasn’t the slightest trace of guilt or shame, just fascination for her. Fondness, too. Suddenly intimidated, she readjusted her brassiere and made some room for him on the bed. _Don’t forget your good manners…,_ she chided herself. _If it still makes sense._

Then, after a silence, she dared ask: “Shall I… repay you the favor?"

The day she had realized how some of the girls entertained customers, even during the shows, kneeling in front of them, Sansa had found it degrading and vile. But it was Sandor, he had just done the same to her: if she took her time and if she focused on his sensations, she knew she would eventually find pleasure in it.

He raised to his full height, and while he towered above her, she gave a fleeting glance at his groin. Her head now rested on the heap of their clothes and the mattress sagged as he climbed on the bed. The sight he was offering, combined to sensation the bed sunk under his weight made her feel giddy. Sandor saw her turmoil, smiled a twisted smile and lowered himself, lying on his side next to her. If he looked at her tenderly, his words were anything but gallant: “Never thought the Little Bird would offer to suck my cock... Another day, maybe, when we have more time. Your hands, Sansa…”

 _So I’ll have to wait if I ever want to reach another step of debauchery,_ she told herself. Sensing the urgency in his tone, she was already freeing his cock from his pants, eager to give him at least the release he needed. Eyes closed, Sandor welcomed the timid touch of her fingers on him with a satisfied grunt. He was in such a state of arousal it was easy that time - or perhaps was she getting better at this game. He growled, mumbled incoherent words and when her name escaped his lips, she knew it was over. While trying to catch his breath, he unceremoniously wiped Sansa’s hands on the sheets.

They stayed there, lying in each other’s arms in the narrow bed, disheveled and sated.

“I never did that before,” he rasped.

“What are you talking about?”

“What I did to you.” To her great surprise, salacious words seemed out of place and he sounded like he was her age or even younger than Sansa, as if by doing something unfamiliar to him he had become again an inexperienced boy who sneaked out to meet his girl. “I never did that before.” He kissed her forehead.

“Why did you do that?” She had buttoned down his shirt, just enough to slip a hand beneath it and access his broad chest.

“You didn’t like it?” Again, she perceived his lack of confidence.

“Of course I did. You know I loved it. So why?”

He chuckled at that. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to get closer to my little bird.” Although they were talking about something that had scandalized Sansa and that would make her blush, later, in the shelter of her own bedroom, she sensed there was more than lust in his caresses earlier and now in his confession. She wanted a declaration of love, she dreamed of these words, knowing she would probably never heard them from Sandor. _Not conventional, hackneyed words of love,_ she mused, _but isn’t it love when he says he wanted to get closer to me?_

Sandor looked at her insistently. She had smoothed down her pleated skirt and adjusted her brassiere, thus looking a bit less like the brazen girl she was minutes before. “You’re shy, now,” he observed. “Are you trying to deprive me from what was mine moments ago?” His large hand cupped one of her breasts while the other slipped under her skirt and finally rested on her hip.

“I love you,” she said, a lump in her throat. She wondered if Sandor, with his hands on her, realized she was on the verge of tears, if by touching her skin he could finally see in her.

His eyes, now as gray as the waters of the lake by her childhood home, never darted away despite his well-known aversion for words of love. “I know,” he confessed.

That was all and that was enough. If he stopped questioning her feelings - even for a short while - she considered herself satisfied. She shifted to kiss him, then remembered what his tongue had done to her; she froze.

“What?” he asked, repressing a smile. “You want to kiss me, then you change your mind because I just tasted your cunt? You taste good, you know.”

Without leaving much choice to Sansa, he wrapped a large hand around the back of her neck and kissed her, fingering her short hair. She protested mildly at first, hands pressing against his chest, yet the taste of his lips didn’t shock her as much as she expected. For a second, she tried to define what the taste was like, then she gave up. _Intimacy.That’s just what it feels to be intimate with someone._ Once more surprised by her own reaction, she responded to his kiss, opening her mouth for him and flicking his tongue, while her arms coiled around his neck. Instead of breaking their kiss abruptly like he often did, the movements of his tongue slowed down until he closed her lips with a dozen of small, tender kisses.

“You can’t stay here. I wish I could keep you here with me, but…” He shrugged.

“Can’t we run away today?” she asked, burying her face in his chest. She already knew the answer.

He sighed. “We need money. The Imp needs money. He also tries to find some… material he could use against his father and his sister. Tell me you understand.” Her head in the crook of his neck, she nodded. “We should go now. The Imp will help me smuggle you out of the Red Mansion.”

With reluctance, his hand retreated from her hip and he got on his feet, buttoning up his shirt, putting on his tie and his waistcoat. All this routine was Sandor’s way to acknowledge their blissful moment was over. Sansa’s chest constricted at the thought she needed to get back to Baelish’s house; she nonetheless followed suit and got up. Before stepping out of his room, she needed more time than him to get ready, though. She soon felt Sandor’s gaze on her: far from shying away from him, she let Sandor feast his eyes on her legs as she put on her stockings, one foot resting on the seat of the chair.

“Look, I’m sorry I shouted at you,” he suddenly said as she smoothed down her skirt.

Brushing past him, she went back to the bed where she sat down to put on her Mary Janes. “Your apologies are accepted. It’s not that... scene you made that hurts, Sandor. It’s-” She paused, looking up at him. He was shifting from foot to foot. “It’s far worse when you don’t come and I imagine I've lost you.”

“I thought I had lost you,” he muttered.

“Stop questioning my feelings. Please. If you… care for me, please stop thinking I’m going to leave you.”

With his head lowered and his hair concealing a part of his face, he looked like a boy of twelve, sullen and pigheaded. “I don’t understand why you would- why you would stay with me. That’s all.”

Voicing out loud his fears was complicated and painful for him; she realized incommunicability was his worst enemy and hers too, for it could tear them apart. The idea he couldn’t express his emotions without feeling as defenseless as a newborn baby disturbed her, and although she was grateful he finally opened up to her, listening to him while he put his doubts in words was difficult for Sansa and her heart sank. Sandor sat down beside her, cradling his head in his hands. Facing his vulnerability was truly unsettling. As none of them dared talk, she rubbed his upper back gently, eager to appease him; she felt him shake under her touch as if he was about to cry or to shout.

Hesitating, she stood up and turned to face him, even though he kept his head in his hands. A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips, as she stroked Sandor’s thin hair, looking down at the crown of his head. _I’m here for you._ He let out a deep sigh, then, without ever looking at her, he buried his face in her stomach. A strong arm soon snaked around her waist, contrasting with the abandon his attitude suggested. The duality of the man she loved was there: no matter how strong and resilient he was, darkness and self-doubt would never disappear.

In his embrace, Sansa felt different, perhaps because his confession had somehow empowered her. _I can be strong for you, as well. Just let yourself go._ There was no need to voice it out loud: the way Sandor hung onto her, digging his fingers in her flesh, proved he understood what she dared not say.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he mumbled against her belly.

“I don’t want to lose you either. We just need to escape soon and everything will be alright.”

All of a sudden, she felt his nose rubbing her waist as he looked up. “Did you see my fucking brother?”

For a fleeting moment, she was tempted to be honest with him and to tell him what he had done to Viola; afraid of his reaction, she thought better of it and decided he needed to focus on their escape, rather than seeking revenge.

“He came to Baelish’s house with his men,” she began. “You told me to stay away from him, so that’s what I did. I pretended to be sick.” _He doesn’t need to know more about it. It’s better this way, especially if Viola keeps her promise and I know she will._

His grip on her tightened when he buried again his face in her stomach, promising their impending farewell. Sansa knew it was already late; she wasn’t supposed to spend the afternoon out of Baelish’s house and the more she lingered there, the more dangerous it became; had Sandor asked her to stay, she wouldn’t have refused, though.

When he finally let go of her, it was he who combed her short hair and made sure she looked presentable; there was no mirror in his bedroom and by adjusting her cloche hat or by helping her put on her coat, they drew out the moment, they held on to the notion they had each other. Sansa knew he would become the Hound again when they would cross together the threshold of his bedroom; he would make sure she came back to Baelish’s house safe and sound, though it be dangerous. For now, however, they were still inside his room, fingers intertwined and reconciled. She swept a gaze over the small bedroom, took in the simple furniture and that grayish light coming from the window; she called herself stupid when she felt her chest constricting. Observant as ever, Sandor noticed her melancholic gaze.

“When I’ll go to bed, the sheets will smell of you,” he stated. Although his comment made her blush, she looked up at him and noticed a smile playing about his lips. “Fuck. That was all I ever wanted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roaring Twenties Glossary (source: Chronicles of a Sassy-Starfish on tumblr):
> 
> Beat one’s gums: Idle chatter.
> 
> Cash or check: Do you kiss now (cash) or later (check)?
> 
> The bank is closed: No kissing or making out (“Sorry, the bank is closed").


	24. Northern Cardinal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Go sit down,” she panted. “I’m going to dance for you.” 
> 
> “I’m not a customer, girl. Just choose some shitty song and sit down on my lap.”
> 
> Sansa chuckled, tilting her head back. “I want to dance for you, not the way I dance when I have a customer. Isn’t it strange that I never dance for you when you’re the only man I want to seduce?” Contradictory thoughts collided in her head: if someone interrupted them while she danced for Sandor, they would never imagine he was more than a customer for her. At the same time, she knew dancing for him would result in kisses and caresses that were dangerous as long as most of the occupiers of Baelish’s house were awake. Oh well. I’m tired of being sensible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I first had the idea of this chapter when I did some research about flowers, plants and animals that are red (I have strange ideas sometimes…). It just so happens that the male Northern Cardinal is a songbird, with vibrant red feathers. As the title of each chapter evokes the color red...
> 
> Warning for language and adult themes.

Heaving a deep sigh and avoiding Sansa’s gaze, Jo barely returned her smile and crossed the wings, heading to the stage. This was the critical moment for the plump, usually over-confident woman, and the cat calls coming from the audience when Jo appeared onstage certainly didn’t help.

“I’ve never ever sung before an audience,” she had confessed to Sansa, a few days earlier. “My mother - may she burn in hell - kept telling me I wailed like a stuck-pig.”

“Your mother should have taught you how to sing instead,” Sansa had replied, vaguely ill-at-ease. “Anyhow, you have to work hard and to trust yourself once you're onstage… You said you love that song: it can only help!”

The song Jo wanted to sing didn’t interest Sansa and she would never even dream to steal it from her companion. Humorous but bordering on vulgarity by Mrs Mordane’s standards, the song was a strange choice to say the least, but Sansa admitted it fitted the merry atmosphere Baelish wanted to instill into the shows. Oddly enough, Sansa found Jo was the only one among the girls who could sing that song.

“It will be a success,” Peitho had prophesied in one of her rare moments of optimism. “You Americans took up arms to protest against taxes. A song denouncing a tax can only galvanize the Republican electors who visit us.”

Jo had frowned at that and after Peitho had left them, she had whispered to Sansa: “Told you she was a Bolshevist.”

Bolshevist or not, Peitho trusted Jo enough to give her the penultimate act of the first part of the show; the frenzied audience expected something cheeky and new and Sansa couldn’t help wondering if the assistance she had offered Jo, giving her singing lessons and encouragement, would be enough. Behind the folding screens that protected the girls from the customers’ eyes, Sansa heard the men tapping their feet or shouting alcohol-induced comments. Onstage, nothing happened yet and she felt the same butterflies in her belly she experienced before singing, although she still stood in the middle of the wings.

“Can I peek into the meeting hall, to watch Jo singing?” she asked Edna. “I’ll stay by the musicians.”

“Remember it’s your turn after Jo.” Edna’s perfunctory lecture didn’t fool her: the bobbed brunette knew Sansa would come back in time and would impress the audience with her song, no matter the outcome of Jo’s performance.

Sansa sneaked out of the wings, offered her best smile to the band and suppressed a fit of laughter when Chester, the piano player, pretended to take off an invisible hat for honoring them of her presence. From where she was, Sansa could catch a glimpse at Jo whose reddened face and fake smile betrayed her anxiousness.

When the music filled the meeting hall, she nevertheless seemed to relax and her voice didn’t quaver when she sang:

_If you want a woman’s vote, don’t put a tax on the beautiful girls_

_For how can they live without love?_

_You can tax their business and all that they own_

_But have a little pity, leave my pleasure alone_

_What I’ll do on some beautiful night, if some young nice fella should call?_

_Suppose it costs a dime to kiss a girl on a cheek_

_How’s the fellow gonna live on fifty a week?_

_So don’t put a tax on the beautiful girls or we won’t get no loving at all_

After a few seconds of surprise, most of the customers started to laugh and to applaud, visibly thrilled by the lyrics and by Jo’s rendition of the song. Some of her companions might call her fat behind her back, but Jo had always been one of the girls their customers prefered; she had that cheeky allure and that humor that made people feel comfortable around her. She knew she wasn’t as stunning as some the other girls, yet she was a master of repartee. A good listener, she often made her customers confess their dirty secrets and she knew better than revealing them afterwards. That night, her sense of comedy and her expressive features made her irresistible.

_If they should ever put a tax on beautiful vamps_

_I’ll be one wild woman that’ll be covered with stamps_

_So don’t put a tax on the beautiful girls or we won’t get no loving at all_

Forgetting all sense of propriety, a man sitting in the front row slapped his knees; the sight of Jo rolling her eyes and feigning horror was more than he could bear. Around him, the audience grinned broadly and shouted encouragements. Putting aside her prejudice against the song, Sansa laughed with them. Jo had set herself a challenge, Sansa had done her best to help her and it was a success. Somehow, Sansa wanted to believe it augured well for the upcoming weeks. That song tasted like freedom and carelessness.

She rushed into the wings while a round of applause rewarded Jo’s hard work; Sansa was ready to sing her song, the last one of the first act. Despite the bustle in the wings, Sansa managed to reach the stairs leading to the stage. Jo was still taking a bow and when she finally exited the stage on wobbling knees, she almost threw herself on Sansa with gratitude. Peitho, regal in a canary-yellow dress with ostrich feathers on the skirt, stopped her before she ruined Sansa’s makeup and hair and she motioned the younger girl onstage with a curt smile.

Jo wasn’t the only one who had prepared something new; Sansa had chosen among dozens of songs the one that needed the audience participation. After exchanging glances with Chester and his band, she explained in the microphone: “Gentlemen, I’ll need one of you to join me onstage-”

Cheering and gasps of surprise interrupted her; she smiled gracefully, before going on: “Oh, and that person will be kind enough to carry his chair with him. It’s important he stays sitting next to me during the song.”

The cacophony amused her: among the customers, she recognized Tyrion and several men who often came to watch her dance. Coming from the bar, Baelish made his way through the tables and chairs, before locking eyes with Sansa and nodding his head.

“Really, I don’t know what to do… Mr Baelish will have to choose among you, then,” she teased, delighted by their enthusiasm and knowing her boss was enjoying the situation as well.

As a good strategist, Baelish feigned hesitation and stroked his pointed beard while sweeping the room. The customers, seemingly forgetting they were grown men, waved and called out to each other like unruly children. In the end, the owner designated a man in his forties who had never visited Baelish’s house before; Sansa raised an eyebrow because dealing with a man she didn’t know at all could be tricky. At the same time, she acknowledged Baelish wanted to make a statement and to prove his customers everyone could have a special treatment in his brothel.

Proud as a peacock, the customer Baelish had chosen stood up and carried his chair; in the meanwhile, disappointed patrons shouted and whistled pro forma. Once the customer was about to climb the three stairs leading to the stage, Sansa noticed apprehension on his face. Average in height and build, he had arrived in the meeting hall with a three-piece suit, but he must have left the jacket somewhere. He had loosened his tie; a purple stain reminding Sansa of red wine was visible on his collar. Sansa welcomed him with a smile, told him to place his chair next to the microphone and to sit down.

“Do as I say and we will all have a good time,” she whispered in his ear, while the rest of the patrons whistled and protested about that sudden display of familiarity.

The moment she faced the audience again, smoothing the skirt of her beaded dress, Baelish’s smugness struck her. He was anticipating her success and this notion, which should have elated her, only got on her nerves.

A last glance at the band and Irving Berlin’s music resonated in the meeting hall. During the rehearsal, Sansa and the musicians had exchanged their ideas about that song, “After you get what you want”, and they had decided to slow down the rhythm to give it both languor and sensuality. The drummer had expressed his doubts about having a customer sitting by Sansa during the song, but as usual, the trumpet player had convinced him Sansa knew what she was doing.

Indolent and jazzy, the trumpet set the pace.

_After you get what you want, you don't want it._

_If I gave you the moon you'd grow tired of it soon_

Sansa only needed to follow the trumpet player to whisper the lyrics and to charm the audience. The moment she mentioned the moon, a grayish balloon with smears that looked like craters landed on the customer’s lap, thanks to Edna’s friendly participation. The patrons burst out laughing and still chuckled when the customer understood the lyrics invited him to send the balloon away.

_You're like a baby. You want what you want when you want it._

_But after you are presented with what you want you're discontented._

Giving him her best smile although his shiny forehead disgusted her, Sansa tousled the customer’s thinning hair. On her right, the trumpet player went wild, slowing down the rhythm as if he didn’t want the song to end. Sansa felt the same: some customers looked like they were in a trance, hanging onto her every word. As she often did when she sang, she tried to lock eyes with a member of the audience, in order to focus; mindlessly, she chose Baelish and held his gaze, amused by the notion he was probably just like the man the lyrics described: stubborn and determined to get whatever had caught his attention, but easily distracted once his wishes were satisfied.

_Changeable, you got a changeable nature_

_Always, always changing your mind_

_There's a longing in your eye hard to satisfy_

_And here's the reason why…_

Swaying her hips and rewarding the customer sitting next to her with a smile or a flick on his shoulder, she went on, waiting for what was supposed to be the high point of the song.

_And though I sit upon your knee…_

At that moment, the music stopped and she briefly sat down on the customer’s lap; as a reflex, the man placed his hands on Sansa’s hips. There was an exclamation of surprise in the meeting hall, soon drowned out by a single crash of cymbals. Sansa stood up at once, pretending to glare at the customer.

_….you'll grow tired of me_

_'Cuz after you get what you want you don't want what you wanted at all_

When the music stopped for good, thunderous applause made her blush and, like Jo before her, she stayed onstage, taking a bow and enjoying the ovation; next to her, the customer looked now slightly embarrassed, but he stayed nonetheless. Looking up at the audience, she spotted someone she thought would never come back to Baelish’s house again: Lothor Brune. Under his gray hair, his features were motionless, the square jaw expressing the same stolidity that had struck Sansa at the time he worked for Baelish. He was standing next to the bar.

 _But if Lothor Brune is here, it means that he’s not alone…_ Her heart skipped a beat when the tall man behind Lothor turned around. Elegant and apparently phlegmatic despite the circumstances of his flight to Cape May a few weeks before, Andrei Berdhokhovski was back in New York. _Oh my…_ Sansa realized she was about to faint when the customer by her side offered her his arm. She mumbled her thanks and headed to the wings, wondering what to do. If Lothor and Andrei were inside, then the Mad Mouse had let them come in. It meant Baelish knew about their visit and agreed. _Agreed?_ Brow furrowed, Sansa tried to give meaning to their presence in the meeting hall, until Baelish materialized next to her.

“Very good song and excellent rendition. You’re really getting good at this game, Sansa.” _He almost purrs,_ she thought, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes.

As he didn’t move, Sansa asked, arching an eyebrow: “Anything else?”

“Yes,” Baelish sighed. “As luck would have it, your Russian suitor is back from whatever rathole he was hiding in. Of course, I wanted to tell him to take a walk but… you know me, I’m a pragmatist. His money is as good as anyone else’s. Now, be a good girl: talk to him, smile, cry, do whatever it takes, but make sure he resumes his visits to you.”

Sansa glared at him, careless of the consequences. The beginning of the intermission had emptied the wings, every girl trying to flirt with the patrons. Baelish snorted and cupped her chin. “You’ll obey, Sansa. And you’ll stop scowling at me.” His touch disgusted her, yet she dared not move. He almost snatched his wrist away from her, then he began to walk away. “Oh, and just so you know,” he said, stopping mid-stride and glancing over his shoulder, “I’m not like the man this song is about. I don’t change my mind. I want you, I’ll have you soon and when it’s done, I’ll have you again, because I’ll never get sated.” All the strength she felt inside her earlier drained away. “You look gorgeous in this dress: red favors you,” he added with no particular reason, before leaving her.

It took a minute for her to regain her composure; although the notion Andrei was somewhere behind the folding screens made her want to hurry in the meeting hall, her feet seemed glued to the floor. She probably looked like hell when she moved past the musicians who sipped their gin, dumbfounded by her fake smile. Sansa nevertheless headed to the area near the bar, where Andrei waited for her. He beamed, then he opened his arms as she closed the distance between them; she stopped at arm-length of him and rested her fingertips in his open palms, blushing.

Her arrival had roused the other customers’ curiosity: Sansa felt their gaze on her and Andrei probably did so as they stood observing each other in silence. Neither of them dared talk for a while, then Andrei seemed to remember it was the intermission and Sansa would be gone soon; he slowly shook his head as if to remove the thought of their future separation. “I missed you, Sansa Stark. Did you miss me a little?” If people could hear them, he didn’t care. He didn’t care either for Lothor Brune who swept the room, always on the alert.

Sansa offered him a wan smile and replied: “You know I missed you.” He expected more than that poor answer, but she didn’t want to lie to him. _I owe him the truth. He’s not the man I love but he will always be in my heart._

Wreaths of smoke coming from cigars wrapped them in a blueish, uncanny light. Sansa admired the pinstripe three-piece suit he wore, she scanned his face and she tried to remember if that thin line on his forehead was already visible the last time they had met. Nervous, she let his fingers circle her wrists. Standing on tiptoe, she brushed his smooth cheek with her rouged lips, relishing the faint scent of his Cologne. _I swear I could have fallen in love with him._ In the crowded meeting hall, she didn’t know if her display of affection had gone unnoticed or not. Although Baelish had disappeared, Sansa convinced herself he wouldn’t miss their reunion: he was probably spying on them at that very moment, stroking his beard and thinking about how much money he could get from Andrei. On the spur of the moment, she had kissed Andrei’s cheek and she didn’t regret it. _What is done is done._

Her hands still in his, she asked: “Are you sure it’s safe for you to be here? Are you staying in New York?”

He nodded, then flashed a smile. “Time has come for me to defend myself against the Lannisters and to prove my innocence. Yes dear, I’m staying in New York for a few weeks.”

“But-” she protested.

Letting go of Sansa’s hand to press a finger on her full lips, he silenced her. “Everything is alright. Your friend Lothor protects me. And I’m not completely useless, even though you seem to believe the contrary.”

She pouted, under his delicate touch; the pad of his thumb stroke her bottom lip until Sansa felt her cheeks grow hot. His proximity, his stare and the warmth radiating from his hands were more than she could stand, especially when curious pair of eyes were on them. Andrei noticed her unease, for he withdrew his hand at once. Sansa seized the opportunity to ask Lothor Brune about Evie and the baby.

“They’re doing good,” Lothor rasped. “They’re both… out there. Evie works for Mr Berdokhovski, as well,” he added in an undertone. “She misses you, Sansa.”

“She named the baby Andrew after me,” his boss said, with a broad grin. Sansa could tell he was proud and she smiled too, amused by the thought Evie had chosen that name for her child. “I’d like to talk to you in private,” Andrei went on, his eyes sweeping the assembly.

Baelish was nowhere to be seen, so they walked to the entrance hall, followed by Lothor Brune, avoiding the small groups of men who leered at the girls. The heavy doors separating the meeting hall from the rest of the building flung open from time to time, when a girl and her customer hurried upstairs or came back a lustful look about them. Sansa tried to ignore them, but she knew what they had been doing and she knew what it looked like, when she walked to the door, her hand tucked under Andrei’s arm.

Andrei was about to lead Sansa outside the meeting hall when the Mad Mouse stopped him. “I’m sorry Sir, but the girl stays inside,” he explained. “I have orders.”

With his short legs and a sort of arrogance his shoulder holster gave him, the Mad Mouse, was the opposite of Andrei’s elegant yet modest countenance. Andrei arched an eyebrow.

“No one takes her upstairs,” the Mad Mouse repeated. Under the copper curls of his unruly hair, his eyes shone with amusement. _He’s vile,_ Sansa told herself.

“How much?” Andrei asked abruptly, slipping a hand in the inside pocket of his pinstriped jacket.

With a snort of a laughter, the Mad Mouse said: “Mr. Baelish pays me enough so that people don’t bribe me. Although a good pay isn’t enough for some men, I was said.” His cutting remark was addressed to Lothor Brune.

“The money isn’t for you,” Andrei retorted, looking down at the Mad Mouse. “Your employer extorted money from me when I came here tonight. I bet a private conversation with Miss Stark will cost me the same…”

“Andrei, don’t!” Sansa intervened, placing her hand on his. The air was thick with tension now, as Lothor Brune glared at the Mad Mouse, and Andrei’s skin was burning hot under her fingers. Watching them fight was the last thing she wanted. _I don’t want Baelish to kick Andrei out, now that he’s here._

“You want to _talk_ to the girl, you stay here,” the Mad Mouse hissed, adamant. Then he walked away and melt into the crowd.

“I’m so sorry,” Sansa told Andrei. “Baelish just tries to make you come back and pay again.”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” His tone was determined as he pulled her close and cupped her face with both hands. “I’m back in New York and I’ll come back here to see you.”

The icy blue eyes bored into her, not ungently, but setting her pulse racing. His love for her was so obvious it sometimes questioned her own feelings. Was he just a friend for her? She acknowledged he could have been more. Being with Andrei meant wealth and security, a big house and the way of life she had been accustomed to. He reassured her when her future with Sandor was a lot more uncertain.

That night, when she left him at the end of the intermission, she almost ran into Tyrion, whose bloodshot eyes proved he had been drinking. “What am I supposed to tell our common friend about your Russian suitor?” he asked her, alcohol making him smile smugly.

Sansa shrugged at him, exasperated by his sarcastic tone and perhaps vaguely disgusted by the reek of whiskey. It was no secret that Sandor was jealous, yet she clutched to the belief he trusted her now. If Sandor wanted to ask her something about Andrei, he could pay her a visit and she’d tell him the truth: Andrei had a special place in her heart and there was nothing to do about it.

* * *

 

The red three-story house looked huge and welcoming as she contemplated it. _A red house, but so different from the Red Mansion,_ she mused. Andrei’s hand slipped under her arm and he led her to the porch. _Is it already summer?_ she wondered. Sansa followed Andrei inside; it felt strange to cross the entrance hall, then to climb the stairs next to him.

“This is your new house,” he told her. “And this is your bedroom.”

A door opened and she saw a large room with a four-poster bed and a balcony. Like a little girl, she squealed with delight, stepped in the bedroom and turned to Andrei to thank him. Her smile vanished when she noticed his forlorn look.

“Do you want to be my wife?” he asked solemnly.

“I don’t know what I want,” was all she could say. She was inside the bedroom, shifting from foot to foot, while Andrei was standing in the doorframe, ready to step inside. Sansa had that strange feeling that what would happen now would have consequences. _Bad or good consequences?_ she asked herself, staring at Andrei’s shoes: he was ready to cross the threshold and only waited for her signal. As panic overwhelmed her, she sensed it all came down to one question: would she let him come in her bedroom or not?

Sansa woke up with a start. Bathed in sunlight, her bedroom offered a reassuring sight after the confusion she had felt during her dream. After lunch, she had felt the urge to lie down and she had quickly fallen asleep. _It was a mistake: I shouldn’t have slept at all._ Rolling on one side, she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. Drowsy and a bit ashamed by the memories of her dream, she stared at the spot on the mattress where Sandor rested his head when he spent the night with her.

The meaning of her dream was too obvious not to disturb Sansa and to color her cheeks in red. _I was in Cape May with Andrei and I lived in his house. And I couldn’t decide if I wanted to be his or not. This is so embarrassing._ She bit hard on her lip. What would it be like to be his? His mistress, his lover, his concubine; she didn’t even know what was the proper word for it. Living in his house by the sea, having a beautiful room - she imagined it would be as splendid as the one she was in, albeit not so attention-getting. Having Andrei cosseting her...

The thought of her existence with Andrei, if she chose him instead of Sandor, was upsetting; fisting the fabric of her sheets, she let her imagination run wild. Her heartbeat loud in her ears as the side of her head was buried in the pillow, she pictured herself arriving in Cape May - just like in her dream. The imposing house with its porch looked curiously welcoming in her imagination. She would look around the property with Andrei, a constriction in her chest just like the one she felt at that moment. Sansa convinced herself she would not let him have her on the first night, nor on the second. Perhaps would she make him wait for days and even weeks. In what looked like a past life, she had visited houses like the one Andrei possessed; couples usually didn’t share the same room. Two adjoining bedrooms for the owner and his wife were the rule. Sansa would most likely have hers while Andrei would sleep in the master bedroom and he would let her do as she pleased, until she was ready.

She imagined them kissing on the beach, on a sunny morning when the wind would mess up Andrei’s blond hair. He had always been good  and understanding; he would not ruin everything by pushing her. For the same reason, he’d always try to make her feel comfortable even though her position was unusual to say the least. In the servants’ eyes, she could not be Mrs Berdokhovski, yet she slept in her bedroom. She would be their employer’s mistress, someone Andrei couldn’t take with him when he visited his friends and therefore stayed all day inside the house. Someone who was indebted to him, for the rest of her life, because he had gotten her out of a brothel.

With time, and probably because she would have no one else to talk to, her whole life would revolve around Andrei and she would eventually give herself to him. She pictured them in his office, her trying to distract him from his paperwork, bringing him some tea, then sitting on his lap, her cheeks aflame and feeling terribly embarrassed. He would be all she had left in the world and his feelings for her were so strong they would convince her she was in love too. Eyes fluttering open, she imagined them in bed, him trying to be as gentle as he could and her reassuring him, saying that no, it didn’t hurt, even if it did.

They would have happy moments together, even if he was getting old, even if loneliness sapped her will. As the high society wouldn’t welcome her, they’d travel, Andrei taking her to countries she longed to visit and to places he cherished. He would look younger now that a woman of nineteen shared his life and his doctor would most likely warn him not to overestimate his strength; his life would have drastically changed since he had met her. After a year or two, she would give him a son and make him proud, happy and vulnerable altogether because that little thing wrapped in fine linen was his. Andrei would go out of business at that time, too eager to enjoy the family life he had lost a long time ago. Their cloistered existence in Cape May would go on, but she would never bear the name of her son and of his father, not until Mrs. Berdokhovski died. That idea, combined with isolation and the wealthy routine of her life couldn’t fail to weaken their relationship and in the end, their love would shrivel up and resemble the withered roses the servants daily removed from the china vases of the foyer.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, until tears escaped her lashes; she had made her choice. If she was being honest with herself, the choice had always been obvious. Sitting up in bed, she wiped away the wetness on her cheeks and gazed at the birdcage two couriers had brought before lunch, surprising everyone, including herself. Large and imposing with its dome-shaped roof and its pedestal, the cage was placed by the window, between the spot where Sansa danced for her customers and the phonograph. _A Victorian birdcage, with its overembellished details: my older self would have loved it._ It accommodated a bird which red feathers and crest had elicited laughs and amused cries downstairs, while Sansa remained speechless. _A Northern Cardinal. That’s how they call this bird. A male, apparently._

Pushing aside the covers then sitting on the edge of the bed for long seconds, she hesitated before reaching her feet to the floor. She had donned a nightgown not to crumple her clothes during her nap; the flimsy fabric billowed as she walked to the cage. Sansa stood there for a while, hugging herself against the cool air and contemplating the timid little bird that stared at her with apprehension, cocking its little head to the side. Out of curiosity, she extended her hand, but before the tip of her fingers reached the steel bars, the bird took refuge in the opposite side of the cage, the sudden flutter of its wings making Sansa step back. The girl and the bird she had been given probably offered an interesting sight, in the afternoon light. They observed each other, silent and on guard, until Sansa tiptoed to the desk where she had stored the note that came along with the bird. The card felt nicely thick under her fingers as she retrieved it from its envelope.

_My dearest Sansa,_

_Please accept this modest gift. I walked past the bird shop yesterday, saw this Northern Cardinal and it made me think about you. His feathers’ color remind me of your silky hair I long to touch and his singing is pleasant, although nothing compares to your talent._

_I missed you every minute since I left Baelish’s house and I hope to come and visit you soon._

_As ever yours, Andrei Berdokhovski._

She was touched, of course, yet the symbolic meaning of his present - an adorable bird locked in its cage - disturbed her to say the least. Glancing over her shoulder, she shot a wary look at the cage, then she softened when she realized how terrible the bird probably felt, confined there, in a place it didn’t know, helpless. _Is this the way Andrei sees me?_

* * *

 

By the way he shook his head slowly, his surprised look suddenly turning into a scowl, Sansa could tell Sandor was ready to burst out. He took one more step toward the cage, therefore frightening the Northern Cardinal. The red bird fluttered about, alarmed by the looming frame of Sansa’s visitor.

“This is so cruel,” he growled, his tone so threatening she wondered if he was referring to the caged bird or to her situation. “This is a fucking scandal, you know. You can’t buy Northern Cardinals anymore. Their sale was prohibited a couple of years ago.”

Sansa suppressed a nervous chuckle. He swiveled his head to look at her inquiringly. “What the hell are you laughing at?”

“Alcohol was prohibited a couple of years ago and you sell whiskey on a daily basis,” she observed.

“I don’t sell alcohol. The Lannisters do. I just beat the crap out of the bad payers and I clean up Joffrey’s mess,” he retorted, serious as ever. “Don’t tell me you love that stupid present. A red, singing bird? What the fuck was this bastard thinking about?”

She rolled her eyes. “First of all, he’s not a bastard, Sandor. He’s a good man. And he doesn’t know you call me little bird, because… because I didn’t tell him. I never told anyone.”

Sandor seemed to forget about the cage and closed the distance between them. “So you didn’t tell anyone?”

“No. I thought it was our secret. Is it?” She craned her neck to look at him straight in the eye. The speed of her pulse increased when he lifted her chin with his forefinger, then gently brushed the surface of her lower lip.

“I guess it is,” he replied, his voice as tender as the pad of his thumb on her lip. He took a sharp intake of breath and ducked his head to kiss her. Sansa arched her back, snaking her arms around his neck not to lose her balance. Their kiss was brief, Sandor choosing not to deepen it even if she parted her lips for him. _Just a promise of what will happen later,_ she mused as he broke their kiss. Her hands retreated slowly, lingering on his upper arms.

“I don’t like that present, Sandor,” she admitted, her eyes roaming over his broad shoulders. “I think it was clumsy, to be honest, but a gift is a gift. I’m just sad whenever I see this poor bird.”

Sandor stepped back and her arms dropped to her side; in two strides he was standing by the cage, frightening the tiny creature again. His fingers hovered over the door handle, as if he was ready to let the bird out. At the sight of his massive frame standing by the birdcage, shoulders hunched and head hanging in frustration, she felt a lump in her throat. _The notion of someone or something fragile and vulnerable locked in a cage is unbearable for him, be it a girl or a bird._

Sighing, she came closer and, staying behind him, she wrapped her arms around his middle. “Andrei will come back here most likely, and he expects to see the bird,” she whispered against his muscled back. “I’ll open its cage the day we leave. We’ll free the bird together, if you want.” Her words seemed to soothe him for he placed his hands on hers and he somewhat relaxed. “Peitho will ask herself what’s going on if she doesn’t hear the phonograph,” she added with reluctance.

He grunted the moment she broke their embrace. It was the first time in weeks Sandor officially came to Baelish’s house and Peitho had said something about his long absence. Bringing more attention on his visit tonight was out of the question. Crouching by the phonograph, Sansa picked several records, wondering what kind of music she wanted to listen with Sandor. When she stood up, ready to place a 78 rpm on the turntable, she felt his presence right behind her.

“Still had the taste of your cunt on my tongue when I went to bed the other night,” he rasped, his large hands grabbing her hips.

Sansa stifled a gasp. “You shouldn’t talk like that.” Her heart pounding wildly in her chest, she convinced herself they couldn’t take any risk. Indulging in kisses and caresses when someone could knock at her door anytime was foolhardy.

“Oh no?” he teased, seemingly aroused by what he took for shyness. “Remember the day you first visited the Red Mansion, how young and naive you were at that time? Could you believe at that time you’d end up in my bedroom, with my face buried between your legs?” She rolled her eyes at his words, yet her body tingled with anticipation. “Make no mistake, girl, I intend to kiss every damn inch of your skin and lick the places I don’t kiss. The fact you blush and protest just makes it better. I’ll take my time with you till you turn red and whimper like a baby.”

She felt his hardness now, a bump against her lower back that made her weak in the knees. His carelessness never failed to surprise her; henceforth, it startled and thrilled her in equal parts. A tiny moan escaped her lips and Sandor read it as an invitation to caress her ribcage. He stilled his hands on the underside of her breasts.

“Go sit down,” she panted. “I’m going to dance for you.”

“I’m not a customer, girl. Just choose some shitty song and sit down on my lap.”

Sansa chuckled, tilting her head back. “I want to dance for you, not the way I dance when I have a customer. Isn’t it strange that I never dance for you when you’re the only man I want to seduce?” Contradictory thoughts collided in her head: if someone interrupted them while she danced for Sandor, they would never imagine he was more than a customer for her. At the same time, she knew dancing for him would result in kisses and caresses that were dangerous as long as most of the occupiers of Baelish’s house were awake. _Oh well. I’m tired of being sensible._

His hands left her ribcage at once, but his chapped lips lingered above her ear; she felt his next words more than she heard them: “So you want to seduce me?” He made her turn around, so that she now faced him. His wolfish smile struck Sansa as he let his eyes wander on her throat and further down her bust. As images of their previous encounters churned in her head, she felt her cheeks redden and she couldn’t help biting her bottom lip. “Go ahead, woman, I won’t stop you. Can’t promise I won’t grab your waist or throw you on the bed before the end of the song, though.”

“Sit back and relax,” she whispered, trying to regain her composure. “It’s my turn to take things in hand.”

He snorted in disbelief and burst out laughing the moment she realized how provocative she involuntarily sounded. _And stupid, so incredibly stupid._ “I thought I was the one with a dirty mind,” he chuckled while she turned crimson. “I’m rather shocked, little bird, that you offer to play with my cock before we even kissed properly,” he added, relishing her embarrassment.

Sansa jabbed a finger at his chest: “Be good now. I’m going to choose a record at random, I’ll lock myself in the bathroom to change clothes and be right back.”

Two minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom and pushed the door close behind her, leaning against it in her belly dancer costume. She heard him curse at the sight of her wearing only a beaded brassiere and harem pants that revealed her long legs. Sansa stayed still, giving him plenty of time to contemplate her slender form, then she sashayed to the phonograph, replaced _“Avalon”_ with _“Snake Hips”_ and turned to him.

She had chosen that costume not only because men found her alluring when she donned it; her closet was filled with revealing clothes and among the last dresses Baelish had given her lately, most were meant to titillate customers. If she was being honest with herself, Sansa knew she needed to wear that brassiere and those harem pants to exorcise her memories. Dancing for Baelish with this outfit had been a harrowing experience and she clutched to the belief that, wearing it again in different circumstances, to please and to seduce the man she loved would erase the mental image of her swaying her hips before a bearded man slumped on a ridiculous fainting couch. _A memory chasing another one. Something good to recall if she had to put on that horrible costume again._

She couldn’t stand _“The Sheik of Araby”_ anymoreand that was why she had chosen _“Snake Hips”_ , an instrumental piece. It was a foxtrot, perfect for an ad-lib choreography, yet it conveyed a welcomed sensuality.

Sitting in the oversized armchair that matched his imposing bearing, Sandor had his legs open and he casually dug his elbow into the armrest. His chin almost rested on his collarbone as he ensconced himself in the seat; staring at her, a half-smile pulling up the corner of his lips on his good side, he looked formidable. Sansa had a feeling of déja vu, and it seemed to her she was going through his first visit at the brothel again, when he had frightened her, before offering his help to escape New York. _The only difference is that he doesn’t scare me anymore. And I want to charm him._ She felt wanton all of a sudden, then the first crash of cymbals rang out, rousing her from her thoughts.

At first, she only moved her shoulders, shrugging them ever so slightly; after a few seconds, she lifted her arms and the slow movement of her shoulders spread to her bust and further down, to her hips. His eyes constantly on her, Sandor stayed still, but she soon noticed how tightly he held the armrest, as if he wanted to restrain himself. Sansa knew her every move was suggestive when she closed the distance between them, wriggling her hips toward him. Stopping at arm-length of his seat, she teased him yet she went on and danced, ignoring the grunt, deep in his throat. It nevertheless sent a shiver down her spine as she tried to imagine what he had in mind at that very moment.

She exaggerated her movements, not because someone demanded it, but because she wanted to. The sway of her hips, unhurried and sensuous, became wider. She squirmed internally the same way when he stared at her during his first visits; the thought made her smile and she threw her head, just a little, feeling how he wanted her - and how she was now comfortable with that idea.

The dance was just a beginning though, a mere appetizer for what would follow. If Sandor was visibly unable to stay still, Sansa grew impatient and waited for the last notes of _“Snake Hips”_. However, when the music stopped, giving way to the now familiar crackling of the phonograph, she froze, suddenly frightened by her own boldness.

Sandor shifted in his seat. “Come here,” he rasped, the need his tone conveyed making her shiver despite the exertion. Lifting her hand in a soothing gesture, she walked briskly to the phonograph, picked a record at random and fumbled with the sleeve. “What the hell are you doing?” he spat out of frustration.

“Don’t want us to get caught,” she replied, finally retrieving the record and placing it on the turntable with shaky hands. She wasn’t even able to put _“Snake Hips”_ in its sleeve; she left it on the rug, chiding herself for the untidiness.

Did Sandor understand she put on a record so that nobody wondered what was going on inside her room? Before she could answer that question, she was standing before him, chest heaving and exhaling as slowly as she could to calm down.

“Come,” he growled insistently and his fingers circled her wrist. He made her straddle him and while recognizing all the tell-tale signs in her - the heat on her cheeks, the tingling, and even the vertigo Sandor’s closeness provoked - she realized he was struggling not to seem overeager; his labored breath and his pleading eyes betrayed his arousal. He hesitated for a second, as if he regretted that things were going out of control. A moment ago, he had told her he wanted to take his time, and he visibly acknowledged he had failed, that his need for her couldn’t be ignored. Pulling her close, he claimed her mouth. Being as impatient as him, Sansa immediately parted her lips for him. He could have restrained himself if she had ever expressed the slightest apprehension; every trace of concern was gone though, and her desire matched his, making her rock her hips against his.

 _What’s that song I chose?_ she wondered, briefly trying to keep a grip on herself. Sandor’s hands struggling with her brassiere while nibbling at her lips convinced her the song’s title was the least of her worries, that she would have plenty of time later to discover what song drowned the sound of their kisses as he undressed and fondled her.

 _Time is running out,_ she thought confusedly, knowing well the song wouldn’t last forever and that she would have to run to the phonograph once the first crackles would escape the copper-colored horn of the device. Reaching out behind her and arching her back in the process, she helped Sandor unhook her brassiere and almost yanked at the shiny fabric. _We don’t have time..._ The groan reverberating in his throat wasn’t enough for her, nor was the lust in the glisten of his eyes when he finally saw her naked to the waist. _Hurry up._ His callous hands made her moan when he palmed her breasts. _Please._ The moment she felt his avid mouth on her nipple provided a short relief; he knew how frustrated she was though, for his hands already slipped under the waistband of her pants.

* * *

_I don’t want this to end,_ she mused, sighing softly as his fingers brushed the skin of her upper arm, light as a feather. _And I don’t want to sleep._

She yawned and snuggled up to him. It was probably past midnight. After their mutual caresses they had put their clothes back on and resumed their old routine, her sitting on his lap, only leaving his embrace to put on a new record. At the time he was supposed to go, Sandor had exited her room, stomped down the stairs and made sure the Mad Mouse saw him leave. The next minutes had seemed endless, until he had knocked at her door again. As expected, Rose had opened the back door for him and helped him go back upstairs inconspicuously.

Perhaps danger made the few moments they shared more passionate or perhaps the shortest separation increased their desire; in any case, they had pleasured each other again and Sandor, staying true to his promise, had taken his time. They were now lying in bed, her wearing a satin nightgown and him with only his pants on. Head pillowed by his chest, she listened to his breathing, wondering if he was about to fall asleep. He had already turned off the bedside lamp.

His hand froze on her shoulder and he rasped: “Feel tired, little bird?”

“No,” she mumbled against his pectoral and she tightened her grip on him, finding chest hair under her fingers.

There was a silence, then he said abruptly: “It’s getting harder and harder.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, alarmed by his tone. She tried to prop herself up, but his strong arms snaked around her at once, comforting her. She reluctantly rested her head on his chest again, waiting for his answer.

“Restraining myself is difficult when… when we’re together,” he confessed. He cleared his throat. _Looks like I have to say something._

Sansa hesitated, then felt relieved he couldn’t see her turmoil in the darkness. _Maybe it’s the point of this conversation: telling each other things we wouldn’t by daylight._ “If what we did wasn’t enough for you, why don’t we sleep together?” She squeezed her eyes shut, right after she heard her own words. “I want it too,” she nevertheless added.

“Not here. Once we’re out of New York and safe, if you still want me in your bed…” He didn’t finish his sentence.

She propped herself on her elbow, leaning over him. “Is this a promise you made to yourself or something?”

“Sort of.” By the way his chest moved underneath her, she understood he shrugged, feigning indifference.

“You have a sort of ethics regarding our relationship, haven’t you?” she teased. “I thought you didn’t make promises.”

Before she knew what was happening, he had grabbed her shoulders and flipped her on the bed; she chuckled, delighted by his reaction. “Careful now, girl,” he growled. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

Feeling his weight on her again was a reminder of what they had just done. “On the contrary, you just gave me a sample of your... talents,” she retorted, remembering how attentive he had been while they fondled each other.

Sandor pecked her on the forehead and on the cheeks, making her laugh. “We shouldn’t be so noisy,” he regretted, rolling on his back again. Sansa shifted and cuddled up to him.

“Where do you want us to go?” she asked in an undertone. “I mean, the day we escape, where are we going to?”

Silent, he reached for her leg and drew it up his body, so that her knee rested on his thighs; then, he wrapped a protective arm around her. “Where do you want to go?” he rasped.

“I don’t know. It’s difficult for me to plan anything, as long as I’m stuck here. Sometimes, it looks as if dancing for customers and preparing shows and… just trying to survive here take all my strength. Life in this place made me unable to make plans. Do you think Europe is safe? Or is Latin America better?”

He sighed. “Europe is a good choice. The Lannisters have connections in Ireland where they buy whiskey, but apart from Ireland, we’d be safe. I think you’d like to go to France,” he added after a pause.

“Do you really speak French?” Sansa asked, her voice betraying her incredulity. His years abroad during the Great War were still shrouded in mystery; she wondered about the time he had spent out there when he was on leave in Paris. _Did he get along with the inhabitants or did he keep observing them from afar, sipping his wine and smoking one cigarette after another?_

“I know how to make myself understood,” he replied. “ _“Donnez-moi du vin.”_ This one works better with a curse word or two. I realized once _“Donnez-moi du vin, nom de Dieu,”_ is more efficient. I bet you never learned how to swear in French; I could teach you that.”

She chuckled softly. “What about flirting in French?”

“If you think I forgot everything the moment I came back here, you’re sorely mistaken,” he said, braggart. “How about that: _“Vous êtes très jolie.”_ ” Pulling her close, he whispered the last words in her ear.

“No, no,” she protested. “You wouldn’t address me so formally in French.”

“You’re probably right. Frenchmen wouldn’t say _“vous”_ to a girl who jerked them off.” Scandalized, she elbowed him. “ _“Tu... es très jolie,”_ ” Sandor added, after a short moment of hesitation. “Does it sound better, now?”

His accent, when speaking French was probably as strong as hers, yet listening to him while he spoke a foreign language provoked something inside her she couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t because he spoke French, specifically; younger, Sansa had been convinced that Paris was the most romantic city in the world, because everyone said so. Now she acknowledged it was just as stupid as stating loud and clear that English people were straight-laced or that Italians spent their time partying and drinking red wine. It wasn’t the language he spoke in that made stirred something inside her; the fact he had been to places she had never visited, met people she didn’t know intrigued her more than she expected. There was a large part of his life that remained clouded, a whole continent to explore for her once they would be safe; despite her drowsiness, that notion made her bit her lip.

“Does it sound better?” he repeated in an undertone, stroking Sansa’s short hair and rousing her from her thoughts.

“Yes,” she slurred. “So we’re going to France?”

“I don’t know. I want to take you there, so that you can see what Paris is like. You’d like the french countryside too. But perhaps England is a better choice to start a new life. We can’t get rid of our American accent, but if we want to fit in with the crowd, speaking their language and being familiar with their customs might be useful.”

Sansa nodded against his chest; fatigue had taken its toll on her and she felt like she was drifting in and out of sleep. _France, England…_ Nestling against him, she ignored where they would go and before slumber made her close her eyes, she told herself the circumstances would decide. In the confusion of their escape, they would take any boat to Europe. If the boat was to reach London, they would probably stay there and it would be fine the way it was. _As long as we are together, I don’t really care,_ she mused. _If Tyrion understands he has to leave us and to live his life, things will be perfect. Swell, that’s what Edna would say._

Underneath her cheek, Sandor’s chest was warm and his embrace invited her to drift off. At some point, she felt so good and so confident she didn’t know anymore if she was in Baelish’s house or on board a transatlantic liner. _In some small cabin, in Sandor’s arms… safe._ _Lulled by the ocean waves._ A tiny voice inside her reminded her she was still in New York, that danger was everywhere, yet with time, the voice became barely audible and only Sandor’s presence mattered. Sansa breathed in his masculine scent, shifted until he tightened his grip on her waist and that was enough for her.

Risk and uncertainty had made her realize she couldn’t take for granted the things she cared for, that she had to enjoy them while there was still time. Sandor was hers until dawn. She didn’t know what the next day would bring and she refused to anticipate the potential threats. _Not now… we still have time._

 


	25. Strawberries in March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor gazed at her, then he said a bit stiffly: “I’ll wait for you in your bedroom. Unless you want me to go…”  
> “No.” He averted his eyes and turned to grab the door handle. “Wait,” she said again. “Do you want me to make some room for you, Sandor?” She stretched her legs and sat up very straight, feeling like she was doing the most daring thing. He could see her breasts this way and as she expected it, he took a good look at her while her cheeks grew hot.  
> “Do you know what’s going to happen if I take my clothes off and step in that bathtub, girl?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning from adult themes.
> 
> A million thanks to Underthenorthernlights who beta read this chapter! I also want to thank ADK_SanSan and Filis for their skills in Russian and their precious help.

The last act of Manon had taken its toll on him, reminding Andrei Berdhokhovski of a certain red-haired girl who haunted his nights with her lilting voice and slender frame. A walk from the Metropolitan Opera House to his hotel - even if it promised to be long - was what he needed right now.

His walking stick in hand, he had told Lothor Brune not to follow him and to drive back to _The Waldorf_ instead. There, Brune would wait for his employer’s arrival. Of course, Brune had questioned his sudden disregard for the elementary rules of safety in a city where their presence wasn’t welcome anymore and he had disapproved of it. A curt hand gesture was the only response Lothor Brune got from him though; Brune wrinkled his squashed nose, slightly shrugged - his casual way to show his disagreement - and he walked away. _Rather dismissive of me,_ Andrei thought afterward. Maybe the man he had hired as his bodyguard was relieved to leave the Metropolitan Opera House and its somewhat straitlaced atmosphere. Andrei suspected him not to enjoy classical music: Massenet’s melodies didn’t fill him with enthusiasm obviously; although Andrei had trouble understanding how somebody could remain indifferent to the trials and tribulations of Manon and of her lover Des Grieux, he had to admit Lothor Brune couldn’t care less. At least, Brune did have the merit of never expressing his boredom, but if Andrei was being honest, he could say Lothor Brune, his strange companion and guardian in New York City, hardly expressed anything.

As he walked in the quiet, almost deserted streets, Andrei’s thoughts turned - once more - to Sansa Stark. He had plenty of time to reflect before reaching _The Waldorf_ and that notion somehow delighted him. With the inquiry the District Attorney had initiated - under the Lannisters’ orders, in all likelihood - he had been busy consulting lawyers and trying to prove his innocence; a moment alone, thinking of the beautiful Sansa Stark was what an evening at the Metropolitan inclined him to.

She was pretty and delicate, educated and kind-hearted. _Sansa, lyubimaya moya…_ When she smiled at him, her full lips parting slightly, the rest of the world disappeared and he felt like that smile could engulf him. Andrei forgot about his worries, about his age, about the obstacles arising in his path - her affection for another man being the biggest. The two of them were the last living souls when Sansa smiled at him. Sometimes, when despondency overcame Andrei, he recalled how it had been difficult to make her smile at the beginning of their relationship. Andrei wanted her to smile sincerely, not to give him one of those perfunctory smiles she had learned to reward her customers. It had been long and complicated. _A conquest._

Splashing light in the street and momentarily blinding him, a large limousine broke the silence. _She’d like Manon,_ he mused, remembering Sansa loved classical music too. He would take her anywhere, if he could. Protect her from the Lannisters, take care of her, anticipate her desires. _If she wanted me to._ She didn’t want him, although he had thought for a while; about that man who made her voice quaver when she mentioned him, couldn’t rescue her. If the man failed, then Andrei would be her only chance to put behind the life in Baelish’s house. _If he fails…_ The fact this man coveted Sansa and was loved by her while he, a man who had everything, clung to a one-sided relationship, was unfair. Andrei would bide his time: Sansa’s lover could not succeed. He sometimes feared the consequences of their escape, assuming it would be a failure: if the mystery man endangered Sansa’s life, he’d never forget him.

_Milaya sestra… My sweet sister._ She was sweet indeed and so naive, so trusting. No matter the part she had played when the Lannisters had had his mansion searched, Sansa would always be that sweet girl whose mere presence had persuaded him life still had things in store for him. A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips as he popped up the collar of his overcoat. The night was chilly and _The Waldorf_ wasn’t in sight yet.

He was trying to recall the feel of her lips on his cheek, the other night, when he heard someone behind him. Remembering one of the tricks Lothor Brune had taught him in anticipation of their stay in New York, he stopped under the nearest street lamp and lit a cigarette. According to Brune, it was the best thing to do when having the impression of being followed; Andrei wasn’t particularly worried - he thought the Lannisters had other fish to fry than to stalk him - but he would have felt disappointed if he didn’t put Lothor Brune’s advice into practice. _Like the hero of some crime film,_ he laughed inwardly.

The lighter made a clicking sound and the wreath of smoke coming from the cigarette slowly went up in the cold air, but nothing happened. He pricked up his ears. Brune had told him that if he ever feared to be followed, he should stop to let the person move past him. If this person was innocent, they would just resume their walk and he’d feel relieved. _He didn’t say what I should do if that person stopped too._ There wasn’t anyone behind him: Andrei puffed on his cigarette, shaking his head at his own nervousness. _Don’t be ridiculous._ He might not be welcome in New York, but the Lannisters wanted him humiliated and penniless if possible, not dead.

He exhaled a puff of smoke and stubbed out his nearly untouched cigarette against the street lamp. _Keep walking, don’t react like a silly old man._ He lengthened his stride ever so slightly as he headed to The Waldorf, suddenly impatient to see Lothor Brune’s severe face. _Maybe the person walking behind me was going home and stepped in one of these buildings. That’s the most sensible explanation._ Satisfied, he took a deep breath and went on, tightening his grip on the walking stick. The walking stick could be a good makeshift weapon if need be, Lothor Brune had told him. Why this idea popped up in his mind now? Andrei shook his head once more, finding his anxiety ludicrous, but when he heard the man’s footsteps behind him again, coming closer, he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder. _Like a scared little girl,_ he chided himself, ruing his lack of courage.

The man was walking fifty yards or so behind him, rather slowly, it seemed. _Tall, dressed in black,_ he told himself as a mental note. _Long legs, long strides._ And staying deliberately in the dark, always avoiding the ring of light the street lamps projected on the sidewalk. Andrei was unable to say how the man looked apart from these details and he imagined Lothor Brune’s unconcealed exasperation when he would describe the suspect and tell him the man looked just like him. _Or maybe…_ He suddenly noticed how similar Brune’s new overcoat and this man’s were. _What a fool I was. Brune decided to follow me heedless of my orders. Perhaps my safety concerned him or perhaps he wanted to see if I paid enough attention to my surroundings when I’m alone._ Suppressing a relieved laugh, he called: “Brune! What are you doing here?”

No answer came.

The man had heard him, Andrei could have sworn he had, but he kept silent and resumed his walk, gaining ground. Andrei suppressed a gasp. The notion it was not Lothor Brune but some stranger who was anything but friendly sent a shiver down his spine: Andrei sped up the pace, clutching to his walking stick this time. The moment he saw _The Waldorf_ ’s main entrance and its doorman, he was out of breath. He nonetheless went on, trying to walk as fast as if he could, despite his doctor’s instructions concerning his heart disease. He realized his throat was as dry as sandpaper: how could he call for help in this case? A painful look on his face, Andrei hobbled along in the dark street because of the stitch he had in his side. He stopped in front of _The Waldorf_ , breathless and looking so pale he frightened the doorman.

“There’s someone…” he muttered as the doorman offered him his arm and led Andrei inside the hotel. “Behind me. Following me.” He gestured at the darkness outside that had threatened to engulf him a moment earlier.

The doorman shook his head, disbelief making his eyes widen. “There wasn’t anybody behind you, Sir. I swear there wasn’t a soul in the street.”

* * *

“Higher!” Baelish commanded, although the music drowned out his voice. “Faster Lois, you’re late!”

Standing in front of the scene, arms folded, he observed everything with narrowed eyes that claimed he would not tolerate any mistake. “It’s a fan, for God’s sake, not a flower pot. Try to look elegant!”

For some reason, Baelish had kicked off all the girls except for Lois, her twin sister Dorothy and Sansa, explaining he would see to that dance act personally, instead of letting Edna or Peitho work on it with the girls. Apart from them, there were only the musicians in the meeting hall.

_My final dance act,_ Sansa thought bitterly. The one supposed to glorify her beauty and to up the bidding for her virginity. Since he had sent away everyone, she had felt slightly nauseous and her queasiness had not disappeared - far from it - when he had announced it would be a dress rehearsal. Baelish had imagined the dance act and explained it to the girls with a wealth of details: at first, Lois and Dorothy would step out of the wings, playing with ostrich feather fans - something Baelish had probably copied from the Ziegfeld Follies, according to Sansa. The blond sisters would stay upstage until Sansa came behind one of them and quickly hid herself behind the open fans the girls would wave. Eager to raise the stakes, Baelish had decided Sansa would wear a lamé brassiere and matching shorts, but the customers wouldn’t see anything at all until the twins would alternatively remove the fans and put them back; in the meantime, the three girls slowly moved downstage. That was the tricky part: Lois and Dorothy had to play peek-a-boo with their ostrich feather fans but they also had to keep in step.

“You’re not listening to the music!” Baelish barked. _As if he knew anything about music._ Sansa rolled her eyes, but she knew he wasn’t completely wrong. Lois had trouble lifting the fan at the right moment. “Again, from the beginning!”

There was a big band in the meeting hall, instead of the musicians Sansa had befriended. At the end of the last show, the red-haired trumpet player Sansa liked had told her he didn’t want to come back to watch her “being sold like a broodmare”. In any case, the trumpet player had only preempted Baelish’s decision, because the brothel owner had already made up his mind: Chester and his band were not worthy of Sansa’s birthday party; he wanted a big band to cause a sensation. That afternoon, the black musicians of the big band were thus cramped for room in the corner of the meeting hall.

Sansa heard muffled protestations coming from the big band as Baelish demanded that they played the song from the start, again. At least, these men she had never met before couldn’t see much of her, from where they stood and if they could, they didn’t seem very curious, because watching girls dancing in lamé brassiere and shorts was so very commonplace for them. Sansa told herself they probably worked in clubs most of the time.

“Dorothy, no!” Baelish exclaimed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Oh well… Sansa, the Charleston, please.”

At that moment, Sansa remained alone downstage, while Lois and Dorothy moved aside and watched her dancing the Charleston, still waving their fans. A shrug, a step forward and another backwards: Sansa began with the most basic movements, before the rhythm went wild. Then, she swung her arms, slightly leaning forward, and when the trumpet player began his solo, she kicked up her heels and exaggerated her movements. At some point, she stopped moving backward and forward, stayed downstage and placed her hands on her knees, quickly moving them from one knee to the other; entranced by music - Baelish might be a monster, but he had chosen very good musicians - she almost forgot where she was and danced more for herself than for the viewers. The song ended all of a sudden, breaking the spell.

“Very good, Sansa,” Baelish said, his onctuous voice making her cringe. “But Lois! How can we show something like that to the customers? I chose you two because you’re twins and you’re as alike as two peas in a pod. You look good on stage, but if you’re not able to make the dance movements at the same time, what’s the point?”

Dorothy nodded docilely whereas Lois, with her arms folded, expressed her silent disagreement. Sansa took advantage of Baelish’s lecture to leave the stage and to slip on a large and warm sweater over her costume.

“Let’s take a break, everyone. Oh, and Dorothy,” he added, “the cook prepared a tray for me: go fetch it.”

“Where am I supposed to find it?” Dorothy asked.

Baelish face-palmed. “It’s in the kitchens, sweetheart,” he said with a mocking smile. Dorothy wiggled away and the brothel owner turned slowly until Sansa was in his field of vision. “Why that sweater?” he asked, visibly disappointed not to see Sansa in her itsy-bitsy costume.

“I’m cold,” she replied, her icy tone making him raise an eyebrow. He nevertheless stared at her bare legs.

The musicians leaving the corner to stretch their legs only distracted Baelish for a short while; as soon as they walked away, he kept on at Sansa: “Come here, if you’re cold,” he purred. Walking the walk, he closed the distance between Sansa and him, then placed his manicured hand on her shoulder.

Sansa wriggled away instantly. “Don’t!” she hissed.

Her sudden reaction forced a smile out of him; he shook his head then smoothed his mustache. “Do you realize you won’t have much choice the day after your birthday party, dear? Once you become a whore, I’ll have you. I’m not into handcuffs and such, but if that’s what it takes to have you, I’ll tie you to the bed.”

Since the day the Kettleblack brothers had left her with her luggage in front of Baelish’s house, Sansa had had plenty of time to harden herself and to get accustomed to that kind of threat, yet she swallowed hard and fought back tears. _I’ll escape before it happens. He’ll never have another opportunity to touch me._

Silently coming back with a tray filled with a china teapot, a cup of tea on its saucer and two mysterious bowls, Dorothy frowned imperceptibly when she noticed the tension between her boss and his protege. She nonetheless put down the tray on the nearest table and after exchanging glances with Sansa, she left, probably sensing Baelish wouldn’t tolerate her presence any longer.

“I’d offer you some tea if there was another cup,” Baelish told Sansa. “Unfortunately, the cook - what’s her name again? - didn’t see fit to add a spare cup. But… we have some strawberries.” He proudly took one of the bowls and held it out so that Sansa could see the bright red fruits it contained.

Sansa looked at him warily: “How did you get strawberries in March?”

“Easy,” Baelish replied. “The Lannisters import rum from Florida and for some reason, their associates out there offered them several pounds of strawberries. Joffey was apparently in a good mood this morning, for a change. He magnanimously gave me one pound of strawberries and I decided I’d eat them for tea time. Do you want one?”

Cautious, she observed the bowl full of red, luscious strawberries, then she locked eyes with him. “No, thank you,” she replied.

“You’ll regret it, Sansa.” He stuffed one strawberry in his mouth and he ate it without suppressing a tiny gasp of pleasure. _He’s such a good actor._ “They’re ripe, you know. They might have grown in some greenhouse, but they enjoyed the sun anyhow.” Sansa slightly shrugged, then she decided she’d better walk away before he threatened her again. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned her as she was heading to the door. “You’ll stay here. With me.”

Her shoulders sank and she hugged herself, finding derisory comfort in the warm sweater she wore.

“Do you know what’s the difference between these strawberries and you?” he inquired, taking a knife to cut the stem out of it. He dropped the stem in the empty bowl and glanced at Sansa again.

“I don’t have a clue,” she muttered. Watching him hulling the strawberries then stuffing them down greedily, she imagined the answer could only disgust her.

“Well, dear…” Baelish paused theatrically and shoved another fruit inside his mouth, “there is no difference, no difference at all. These strawberries are ripe and so are you. When a woman’s beauty is at its height, there’s no need to wait any longer. I’d say it would be silly to wait before taking whatever she has to offer.”

The blade was now covered with the reddish juice of the fruits as he took the knife once more to cut the green stem and swallow the strawberry. “Do you know what happen when you wait too long?” he asked. Sansa guessed it was a rhetorical question and didn’t even think of replying. “They go bad, they become mushy… They lose their color.” This comparison is silly, Sansa mused, trying not to let him impress her.

“That’s why a man should always enjoy strawberries when they’re ripe. Same for women.” A malicious smile lit his face and his mustache moved slightly, giving him a smug expression. Her stomach pulling into a tight knot, Sansa wondered how she could avoid this creepy conversation.

She noticed the reddish stain at the corner of his lips. “You have something, here,” she said.

“Where, sweetie?” Baelish asked, although he knew exactly what she meant. He stepped forward, hoping Sansa would wipe away the stain herself. Holding his gaze, she took a step back giving him no other choice but to retrieve his handkerchief from his pocket and clean his mouth: he did it with reluctance, his eyes narrowing slightly.

After looking down at the bowl, Baelish sighed with disappointment: Sansa assumed it was empty now. Slowly, the musicians came back and Sansa took advantage of the opportunity to politely ask them a few questions about the places where they usually played. Thus, she momentarily escaped Baelish’s clutches. Facing the musicians, she tried to focus on whatever information one of them - a tall pot-bellied man whose laughter could have been infectious, had the circumstances been different - gave her, but when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw Baelish sipping his tea. As usual, he was staring at her.

* * *

The day had been painfully long and Sansa’s feet hurt. However, the shooting pain she felt under her feet was nothing compared to the emotional roller coaster of the afternoon and the evening.

After the rehearsal under Baelish’s guidance, Tyrion Lannister had paid a visit to Sansa. When Peitho had called her, saying Tyrion wanted to see her, the girl had thought he wished to discuss the details of their upcoming escape, then his somber expression had startled her, but the Imp wouldn’t say anything until they were locked in her bedroom.

Tyrion waddled across the room on his short legs and perched on the oversized armchair, while she closed the door behind her.

“What’s going on?” she asked leaning against the door.

“Have a seat, first.” Tyrion sounded exhausted and disheartened. Now he frightened her for good. She slowly walked to the bed and sat on the edge, turning slightly to face her visitor. “I have good news and bad news, dear.” She smoothed her skirt with her palms, trying to steel herself before he went on. “The good news is... my beloved father is talking right now with the detectives of the homicide bureau.”

“I don’t understand, Tyrion. Did they arrest him?” _Is Tywin’s arrest good news?_

Tyrion shook his head. “I guess the homicide bureau could question my dear father about a dozen cases,” he said, smiling ironically, “but no, they didn’t arrest him. Addam Marbrand is still after the murderer of Meryn Trant. He and his men arrested Sandor, this morning. Remember Sandor? Tall man, short temper...”

She reeled, dumbfounded by the idea Sandor was questioned by detectives. _It can’t be true. We were almost ready to go, we can’t give up now. Sandor… What if he’s found guilty? Does death sentence exist in the state of New York?_

“Sansa?” Tyrion called, scooting to the edge of his seat and taking her hand in his plump fingers. “My father is with Marbrand, he won’t leave the building before they release Sandor.”

“How can you be sure?” she nearly shouted, careless of the consequences, if someone heard her.

Sighing, Tyrion reached his feet to the floor and planted himself in front of her, taking both Sansa’s hands in his. “I know my father. He’s cold and he’s a schemer, but when he decides something he never gives up. He will come back with Sandor.”

“Marbrand is stubborn: he won’t let Sandor go if he thinks he’s guilty,” she countered. And then, we’re lost. She couldn’t imagine her life without Sandor.

“Put your faith in Tywin Lannister!” Tyrion exclaimed, feigning cheerfulness. “I’m serious, Sansa, our common friend won’t rot in a cell tonight. He’ll come back home. You know what is funny? If I was arrested, if the police suspected me of being the killer, I’m pretty sure my father wouldn’t take the trouble to talk to these men. But Sandor always obeyed my father...”

Silence stretched as she contemplated her pale hands in Tyrion’s. _I want Sandor here, with me. I want to hold him…_ “Do you know why they arrested Sandor?” Tyrion asked her all of a sudden, making her jump. She shook her head. “Well, apparently, they questioned a man who owns a club or something. He said Sandor was on the crime scene the night Meryn Trant was killed.”

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. She remembered Sandor panicking because his memories of that night had come back, bit by bit, and he thought there was a third man when he had attacked Meryn Trant. He was so drunk he didn’t remember the man’s face, nor his name, nor any useful detail. The man, however, remembered Sandor.

“It’s your fault,” she mumbled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said it’s your fault,” she repeated, louder. “Sandor was ready to go and so was I, but you insisted to find more money and God knows what kind of stuff you can use against Cersei, just to have your revenge. I don’t think about revenge, all I want is to run away from this awful place with him! We’ve waited and now it’s too late!” she sobbed. Deep down she knew her own guilt fueled her anger, because Sandor had tried to protect her from Meryn Trant, that dreadful night.

Tyrion removed his hands from her lap and took a step back. “So that’s what you think? You think I selfishly postponed our escape because I wanted money? And where are you going to live, if I don’t find that money? Are you going to live on love alone with the Hound? I just told you he’s going to be safe, why can’t you be relieved?”

“My so-called birthday party takes place on March 25th,” she said wiping her tears. “Within five days, I’ll be sold and whoever buys my virginity will do whatever he pleases with me all night long. The man I love is in jail and you expect me to be relieved?”

“He’s not in jail, for God’s sake! He’ll soon come back home!”

Sansa stiffened, exasperated by Tyrion’s confidence. “How will I know he’s free?”

Tyrion shrugged, then stared into space: “Very easy. I’ll send you some flowers. Peonies if they release him and… nightshade otherwise. I should go now. Baelish is going to wonder what we’re doing in here…”

Tyrion had left her and two hours later, a courier had brought a bouquet of exquisite peonies. Her hands trembled as she arranged the flowers in a vase, yet she breathed easier.

She didn’t know what awaited her.

* * *

 

After dinner, she knew she would dance for Andrei and somehow, the prospect annoyed Sansa: she was an open book for Andrei and even if she felt better now that Sandor had been released by the police, she knew he would detect her nervousness. What should she say, in this case? Should she tell him the truth? _No, I can’t._ Telling him Sandor had been arrested would arouse his suspicions and Andrei didn’t need to know how Sandor had tried to protect Sansa. _Nor how many people he killed so far. If Andrei finds out, he’ll think I’m not safe with Sandor and he’ll try to stop us._

She was racking her brains to find a satisfying explanation to her shaking hands and anything but serene countenance, when Andrei arrived. Sansa immediately noticed something was wrong and she forgot about her own nervousness. Andrei had dark circles under his eyes - just like he had when we met at the _Ritz_ , after the police searched his mansion, she thought - and he looked worried.

Sansa gave him her best smile as she helped him remove his overcoat. On the spur of the moment, she placed a light kiss on his cheek. “What’s going on?” she asked. “What happened?”

He didn’t reply at first and kept staring at the patterns of the oriental rug for a moment, before locking eyes with her. “My sweet Sansa, you’ll never guess what happened to me two days ago.”

He was right. She didn’t expect him to tell her a tall, broad-shouldered man had followed him in the streets before disappearing mysteriously when he arrived in front of his hotel.

“What does he look like, again?” she asked, even though she feared she knew the answer.

“Tall. Taller than me, to tell you the truth. Heavily muscled, I’d say, but I never saw his face nor anything that could identify him. He walked fast… No, he didn’t exactly walk fast, but his strides were long and I felt like he could catch up with me very easily.”

Sansa took his hand and squeezed it gently. “He frightened you, I can see it.”

“He’s one of the Lannisters’ men, I’m sure,” Andrei added. “They sent him either you spy on me or to scare me. I think it’s the latter: they want to intimidate me. What do you think?” He didn’t know he was right - up to a point.

Sansa nodded and soon offered to dance for him, in order to make him forget about his misadventure. She knew exactly which of the Lannisters’ men had stalked Andrei, she knew why and she’ll make sure he’d never do such a foolish thing again. _Assuming Addam Marbrand doesn’t arrest him once more._

She had danced for Andrei, even if she was worried about Sandor and angry at him. At some point, she told herself there was only one person in her life who had been able to arouse such contradictory feelings: Sandor. She would tell him how stupid it was to follow Andrei; she would even refuse to talk to him before he apologized for what he had done. Whether he should apologize to her or to Andrei, she didn’t know yet and even that idea added to her frustration. An hour passed, Andrei kissed her cheek and left. Thirsty, she went downstairs and headed to the kitchens where she met Edna. The bobbed brunette noticed she looked tired and suggested she should take a bath to relax. Sansa drank her glass of water, nodded gravely and went back upstairs.

_He’s impossible,_ she thought, grousing inwardly about Sandor’s recklessness, while turning on the faucet of the bathtub. The sound of gurgling water barely soothed her nerves. _How many times did he make foolish, unwise decisions like this one? Why follow Andrei in the first place? Because he offered me a bird the other day? Because Andrei dared come back in New York and Sandor thinks he’s a threat? Doesn’t he understand it’s stupid and dangerous to follow people like he did?_

Exasperated, she turned off the lights in her bedroom, except the bedside lamp, then went back to the bathroom, undressed and finally sank into the warm water. _At last._ Edna was right: she already felt better. Perhaps she’d fall asleep quickly after her bath, even though this day had been hectic; she scrubbed herself. _I’m pretty sure a few hours in the homicide bureau left him unabashed. He could very well do something just as crazy tomorrow. He never learns._ Realizing she couldn’t stop ranting about his attitude and therefore didn’t enjoy her well-deserved bath, she leaned her head against the bathtub rim and stared at the ceiling, trying not to think at all. She exhaled a deep breath: whether she wanted it or not, his image kept invading her mind and there was nothing to do about it.

_I won’t talk to him. I won’t. I should supposedly try to contact him somehow and tell him how relieved I am Marbrand let him go, but I won’t. If he expects a message or something, he’ll be disappointed. Following Andrei was the last straw. I won’t let him know I worried about him because someone who keeps stalking people for no good reason doesn’t deserve to know I keep thinking about him. Maybe he’ll realize how angry I am._ Sinking further into the water until only her ears and her face emerged, she stayed there for a while feeling better now that she had taken that resolution. Then, very slowly, she sat up, tilted her head back and eventually began to relax.

Five minutes later, Sansa heard the noise of a door opening and closing, but she assumed it was from Peitho’s room and she squeezed her eyes shut again, until the creaking of the bathroom door startled her. She moved so that the water covered her to the shoulders and she said in an undertone: “Who is there?”

In front of her, the open door hid the frame of her visitor and only did she see him when the door moved back on its hinges. _Sandor._ She wanted to slap him and to fly into his arms at the same time. _Tall and broad-shouldered, looming in the darkness,_ according to Andrei: that was exactly how he looked at that moment and the snigger she saw on his face as he contemplated her form in the bathtub, most likely imagining how she would look like without all this water, only infuriated her a bit more. Huddled-up in the bathtub, she wrapped her arms around her knees and glared at him.

A snort of a laughter informed her he didn’t take her furious gaze as seriously as he should. “What? So the little bird won’t kiss or say hello to the man who escaped the police?”

Sansa shook her head. _First of all, you didn’t escape the police, idiot. They released you…_ She took a sharp intake of breath and replied: “I know what you did. You followed Andrei and now he thinks the Lannisters want him dead. Do you think it’s funny? Are you proud of yourself?”

He snorted again and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Hot bath, cold welcome: is that it? I didn’t hurt him! Why do you care about that man, anyway? Does it mean you have feelings for him?”

“No!” she protested, splashing some water in a childish display of impatience.

Sandor gazed at her, then he said a bit stiffly: “I’ll wait for you in your bedroom. Unless you want me to go…”

“No.” He averted his eyes and turned to grab the door handle. “Wait,” she said again. “Do you want me to make some room for you, Sandor?” She stretched her legs and sat up very straight, feeling like she was doing the most daring thing. He could see her breasts this way and as she expected it, he took a good look at her while her cheeks grew hot.

“Do you know what’s going to happen if I take my clothes off and step in that bathtub, girl?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t hold his gaze and therefore stared at the rippled surface of the water that still hid most of her body. “I want this to happen.”

Sansa waited with bated breath, afraid he would reject her offer, and when he closed the door behind him, her belly pulled tight. _It’s happening._ Eager to keep her promise, she huddled up in the bathtub again, making some room for him. Sandor had already kicked off his shoes and was getting rid of his shoulder holster. Then came the waistcoat, the shirt, the undershirt, and she finally could take a look at his broad chest. His thick chest hair drew her gaze to his abdomen; at some point, she was tempted to avert her eyes and to stare into space instead, yet she felt Sandor wanted her to keep looking at him as he stood there, next to the bathtub, his now useless suspenders hanging loose and his pants low on his hips. The way she looked at him had become essential for Sandor; it was a proof she loved him and in this case, a proof she wanted him and didn’t regret her choice. She therefore watched him, watched his long fingers slowly unbutton his pants; then he took them off, unhurriedly, as if he finally trusted her not to change her mind.

The bulge in his pants was visible when he was fully dressed but she could always pretend it wasn’t there and dart her eyes away from it; she couldn’t ignore it when he wore only his boxer shorts. She suppressed a shiver, remembering what the other girls had told her about the first time.

Sandor made eye contact with her. “Still want me to step in that bathtub, girl?” he rasped.

“Yes” she answered.

Contemplating her behind the thin curtain of his dark hair, he slid his thumb between his waistband and his skin, then he bent forward to remove what still hid his nakedness. When he finally stood up straight, she couldn’t help biting her lip. Sansa had seen his hard manhood before, but watching Sandor naked and knowing what was going to happen was completely different. Never had she realized his thighs were so thick nor he was so hairy. Her former self would have cringed in disgust; she only gazed at his naked body, trying to picture what it was like to lie beneath him and finding she couldn’t. _No matter what I imagine, this is going to be different._

Her throat dry, she nonetheless managed to say: “Sit here, with your back to me. I’m going to wash you first.”

If Sandor obeyed her silently, there was something feral about his gaze and his attitude as he slowly stepped in the bathtub and sat with his back to her. Sansa shifted in the now full bathtub and kneeled behind him. She listened to his ragged breath, wondering if he listened to hers and if she sounded nervous; she decided she was indeed apprehensive and he probably sensed it.

There were a few pale lines on his back and she assumed they were what remained of old wounds. She traced them with her wet fingertips, feeling Sandor’s skin cover with goosebumps as she did. With the cup formed by her hands, she poured warm water on his shoulders and his back, amazed by the sight he offered, so tall and large he almost blocked the view. She took her still wet bar of soap and scrubbed his shoulders, his back, then his arms. Never did he say a word, letting her do as she pleased with him, until she asked him to turn around.

He spilled some water on the tiles as he complied with her request, then he remained silent, looking down at her while she ran her wet, soapy hands on his chest. _God, he’s beautiful._ By places, his skin was rough and so dry it surprised her, but sometimes her fingertips came across a smooth, almost silky surface.

Her heartbeat loud in her ears, she wondered what to do next, when he took the initiative: “Want to scrub my legs too, girl?”

She nodded and before she realized what was happening, Sandor stood up in the bathtub, dripping wet and towering above her. Sansa decided she couldn’t look at his nakedness for now and played for time by asking him to turn around, again. She marveled at his frame and once more told herself he was much more attractive than he thought he was. It was weird to gaze at his naked bottom and thighs - _weird but arousing,_ she mused, biting her lip.

“Enough,” he whispered brusquely. “Let me turn around.” He didn’t give her much choice.

She barely gazed at his hard member as she scrubbed his legs and thighs, but when she was done, when the only part of his body she had not touched so far was his lower belly, his voice resonated in the silent bathroom. “I’ll do the rest,” he rasped. And so he did, pouring some soapy water on his groin, while she watched him, hugging herself in the now tepid water. “What about you?” he asked. “Should I scrub you?”

She shook her head. “I’m good. Besides, the water is growing cold.”

“I’ll towel you, then.”

His wolfish look struck her as he stepped out, never breaking eye contact. Careless of the water he had spilled on the tiled floor Sandor gestured at her so that she followed him out of the bathtub. He wrapped the towel around her shoulders at first, leering at her, then he slowly rubbed her with the cloth. _Head, back, then arms, throat, breasts, belly,_ she enumerated for herself. Then he kneeled in front of her and toweled her legs, beginning with her ankles and unhurriedly going up, until he reached the juncture of her thighs. His gestures looked more and more like caresses and he stayed there, on his knees, panting, a long while after he was done.

“You should towel yourself, maybe,” she suggested, breaking the silence.

He obeyed hastily, dropped the towel and cupped her chin. “I’m not going to apologize because I followed a man who wants to take you away from me.”

Sansa nodded. “We shouldn’t talk about him, especially tonight. I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”

Instead of answering something that would be pointless, he pulled her close, not ungently. She felt his hardness against her belly; disregarding the doubts that crept, she snaked her arms around Sandor’s neck. _I’ll be alright. I want him as much as he wants me._ He lifted her in his arms, drawing one of her legs over his hipbone, then the other one. With a wealth of precaution, he opened the door leading to the room and carried her to the bed, where he put her down after pushing aside the covers.

A glance toward the door confirmed Sandor had blocked it with a chair; on the left side, she recognized the now familiar sight of Sandor’s overcoat on the console table, obstructing the tiny hole in the wall. _We should kiss,_ she thought, _we haven’t kissed yet._ Despite Sandor’s deliberate slowness, while he toweled her or carried her to the bed, she felt like everything was going too fast, like she was floating through a dream. She wanted to kiss his lips, but as he climbed on the bed, leaning over her, Sansa’s hand tentatively brushed his hard cock, making him growl.

“You’re impatient,” he teased her.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” Her confession forced a crooked smile out of him and he kissed her, for the first time this night. Sansa could tell he was taking his time, flicking her tongue with his, deepening their kiss unhurriedly and tickling her neck with his loose hair. When they stopped kissing, they were both out of breath. The gray eyes had darkened slightly as he leaned over Sansa, a tell-tale sign he badly wanted her. Once more, her hand hesitatingly caressed his lower belly, but this time, he grabbed her wrist and shook his head.

“Ladies first.” After this enigmatic remark, he briefly pecked her, then he kneeled between her open legs. Sandor lowered himself and buried his face between her thighs: she soon felt his tongue there, applying pressure on the most sensitive spot of her body. The jolt of pleasure made her arch her back wantonly; he stopped, much to Sansa’s embarrassment and he gazed at her, visibly fascinated by the sight she offered. It was strange to imagine herself as he saw her, naked on the bed, with her legs spread for him; she shook her head ever so slightly to remove the thought and focused on him instead. _His labored breath and the hunger in his eyes are far more interesting,_ she told herself. Out of provocation, Sandor licked his lips. His devious half-smile struck her as he lowered his head to resume his activities, one hand kneading her bottom. The other hand groped for her curves from hip to ribcage, then pinched her hardened nipple until she gasped. Remembering where she was, Sansa covered her mouth with both her hands, doing her best to remain silent. _His tongue…,_ she told herself, unable to think straight. She felt herself losing control, then the wave of pleasure came and when it ended, it left her shaking like a leaf on the bedspread. It had been intense and somewhat brutal this time. _But this is not over,_ she thought exhaling deeply, _this is far from being over._

One hand on each of her bent knees, Sandor sat on his haunches; he waited for her to catch her breath before asking: “Are you sure you want to do this?”

She gave him a long look. “I want to be your wife. Maybe we didn’t exchange wedding rings yet, but I feel like I’m yours already.”

Something changed in his eyes and she guessed her remark had nearly reopened old wounds. He set his jaw, startling her somehow, then he said blandly: “Good.” His inability to express his feelings would never stop confusing her, but at least, he didn’t mock her words of love anymore: this certainty made her breath easier.

He left the bed, ignoring her furrowed brow, and he disappeared in the bathroom and came back with a towel. “You’re going to bleed a little,” he explained. “You once made a fuss about the marks a table had left on the carpet, I bet you don’t want stains on your sheets.”

Sansa stared at him in his naked glory, as he stood by the bedpost, then as he motioned her on the side of the mattress so that he could place the towel where she laid so far. She obediently got back to the spot he had chosen, at the center of the bed, feeling the difference between the soft sheet under her back and the somewhat rough fabric of the towel underneath her buttocks. Then she braced herself for the invasion.

Leisurely, Sandor climbed on the bed again and spread her legs to settle himself there; she noticed he panted and she pushed aside the strands of hair which partly hid his features as he leaned over her. They kissed. Time seemed to contract at that moment, as if all that had happened before was the agonizingly slow beginnings leading to that event. She cupped his face, careless now of the weird sensation she had whenever touching his burned cheek.

Sandor broke the kiss and laid his forehead upon hers. “I could tell you I’m going to be gentle, but I’m not sure I can. Don’t want to lie to you.” His apologetic tone impressed her.

“I’ll be alright”, she said. _Who am I trying to reassure? Sandor or me?_

“No matter what bullshit people told you about the first time, it’s not like what they said.” The unfathomable sadness in the gray eyes hurt her at that moment; she fought back tears and took a deep breath.

A last kiss on her lips and he positioned himself at her entrance. The next thing she would remember afterward was Sandor’s tense expression, then the acute pain in her lower belly. _He doesn’t want to hurt me,_ she thought right after. As he thrusted inside her again, she bit her lip and suppressed a gasp, anxious not to alert the household. _And not to worry him,_ she mused. She held on tightly to him, her arms molding his and her fingers digging in his flesh; she closed her eyes for a split second, then when she opened them again, he frowned deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m hurting you.” He stopped moving inside her, visibly uncomfortable. “There’s no need to go on. I’ll fuck my hand or I’ll fuck yours if you’re still willing.” He propped himself on his arm, ready to withdraw, but she stopped him by wrapping tentatively her legs around his waist.

“No... Stay.” Her legs shook and she felt sore but she refused to let him roll on his back and finish himself like he had suggested.

“Fuck, Sansa. There’s no need-”

“Finish what you’ve started.” Her tone was adamant; he didn’t say anything at first, then he nodded.

Another thrust and she felt the pain again. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he pleaded, whispering against her ears.

Sansa tightened her grip on him, as if their embrace could give her the strength she needed so much. As if I was afraid of falling. “You’re inside me, the rest doesn’t matter.” I’ll be alright. I’ll be alright. Autosuggestion was something she despised so far, yet she took comfort in it. Until she didn’t need comfort anymore.

She had grown accustomed to the steady rhythm of Sandor’s thrusts after a while and she suddenly found herself anticipating his movements and accompanying them. _It can be good. It will be good._ Pain slowly vanished like old memories grow dim and only remained the notion she was a woman, that she was his and that no one could ever have what she had just given him willingly.

Sandor’s movements became erratic and she understood his release was close when she began to feel something, fleeting and discreet, that wasn’t painful anymore. He mumbled her name, collapsed on top of her and stayed there, his face buried in Sansa’s neck. Although she liked the thought of their limbs entangled, her position was less and less comfortable; he must have sensed it, for he left her embrace and rolled on his back with a grunt. As he stared at the canopy catching his breath, she wondered if she should say something or not, if he expected her to nestle against him. Before she could decide what to do, he shifted and leaned over her to wipe away the blood on her thighs with the towel; as he did so, Sansa noticed how hesitative his gestures were. She swallowed hard, trying to realize that blood between her legs and on his cock meant she had lost what Baelish tried to sell at auction to the highest bidder.

“How do you feel?” he asked her, setting his jaw.

“I’m fine.”

Despite her shy smile and her denial, he looked concerned for her. “You’re aching,” he rasped, calm but sounding weary. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that, little bird. I wanted us to leave before.” He paused, averted his eyes. An unusual reserve tinged his voice as he went on: “I wanted us to be far from New York before I-” Sandor briefly squeezed his eyes shut. “Before I fucked you.”

Unexpected shyness and profanity that came back unbidden: that was the unlikely aspect of him she discovered that night. Sandor Clegane and the Hound, she mused. Forgetting her hesitation, she snuggled up to his chest. He wrapped one arm around her waist and kissed her temple. “Looks like we should have waited. Perhaps we did it too soon.”

“Like eating strawberries in March,” she whispered to herself.

“What did you say?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.” _He doesn’t need to know what Baelish told me earlier. He doesn’t need another reason to kill or to stalk Baelish._

Sandor reached for the covers to wrap them in and he remained silent, holding her close until she asked: “What are you brooding over? Wasn’t it good?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he repeated, like a stubborn little boy.

“I know. It’s not your fault.”

“You gave yourself to me and I told myself “Why is it so good?”, then I saw the pain on your face. I never gave a fuck about what women felt, if they liked it or not, but tonight, it seems unfair.” Her head pillowed by his chest, she sensed the frustration in his voice. “Because you gave me something and I was unable to give you something back.”

“It was good in the end,” she reassured him. “And it will be better next time. All the girls told me so, they can’t be wrong.”

He snorted at that. “I thought you might hate me afterward. I don’t want to spoil everything, Sansa.”

“You didn’t.” She kissed his neck, despite the rough contact of his stubble. _Or maybe because of it,_ she told herself. _I like him like this, unshaven and smelling of sweat even after taking a bath, instead of being drenched in Cologne._ “If you wanted to get rid of me, you did a bad job, Sandor Clegane,” she teased.

He pulled her even closer to kiss her lips and only did she notice the sad look in his eyes when their kiss ended. “What, now?” she asked. “The police released you and we… we’re together. You should rejoice.” Playfully, she placed the tip of her forefinger at the corner of his mouth and pushed slightly until his lips formed a crooked half-smile. She chuckled, before his solemn gaze startled her.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said. “Not now, not after what we went through. If something bad happened-”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

Neither of them seemed eager to rekindle that conversation afterward; Sansa felt like she couldn’t do anything to prevent him from worrying and she guessed Sandor’s doubts would come back as soon if he’d say anything else on that matter.

Remembering what the other girls had told her about their customers who spent the night in the brothel, she expected him to fall asleep, especially after the hectic day he had had; against all odds, he kept his eyes open and held her tight, caressing her upper arm or her waist from time to time under the covers. In the dim light the bedside lamp provided, he was lost in thought.

“How was your first time?” she inquired when she couldn’t stand the heavy silence anymore. She craned her neck to look at him.

A dark, humorless laugh was his first answer. “Nobody ever asked me.”

“Tell me. There are so many things I don’t know about you.”

“It’s not a pretty story, girl.”

Sansa didn’t care; she knew a lot of stories by now. Most of them were ugly and she sometimes  wished she could ignore them. Her arm left his middle and migrated towards his chest.

“Tywin Lannister had just taken me under his wing, if asking a boy of fifteen to beat the crap out of people in exchange for a shelter and hot meals is what you call taking somebody under one’s wing. The Lannisters went back and forth between California and New York at this time and so we followed them, me and all the bastards who worked for them. We were in New York when it happened.”

He paused, glancing at her: “Do I bother you?” She shook her head. “So one of the Lannister men, a fellow in his forties who was the closest thing I had to a friend, thought it would be a good idea to take me to a brothel. He thought - he thought he was being kind.” Sandor snorted at that, still disbelieving after all these years. “He took me to this place, a fancy brothel with a huge smoking room and he said the loss of my virginity was worth the money Tywin had just given me. He was the only person who I talked to and who seemed to give a fuck about me, so I didn’t refuse. And I guess I wanted to be a man. I thought I would feel normal after that night, instead of being the virgin who smashed faces but who became red when someone told a dirty joke.”

There was a silence and Sansa encouraged him by kissing lightly his collarbone. _Was it so awful?_

“I didn’t choose the girl and she didn’t choose me either. The madam said she would do it and that was all: neither of us ever had a chance to say no. The bitch charged me twice the usual fee because of my scars, because I’d frighten her girls, she said, and she sent us to one of the rooms.”

“The girl was rather pretty, but she was angry at the madam and she was mad at me. She told me she would ride me, but not the usual way because if my scars were so frightening the madam had asked twice the fee, there was no reason she’d look at my ugly face.”

Mistaking Sansa’s shock for utter confusion, he explained: “She rode me, but she kept her back to me. That’s how I became a man. Fucking a whore who refused to look at me and to let me hold her afterward.”

As tears welled up in Sansa’s eyes, he tightened his grip on her. “I never had a girl who didn’t make me pay for it - one way or another. Aren’t you afraid?”

She was too close to him to make a satisfactory job at hiding her sorrow; when her tears fell on Sandors chest, he cradled her and wiped away her wet cheeks with the pad of his thumb, whispering soothing words. _This is so cruel. How can people be so bad to him? Taking advantage of his scars and rejecting him because of them, not being able to look at him in the eyes…_ Then she realized she had been one of these persons who couldn’t hold his gaze nor couldn’t set their eyes on his burns and her sobbing increased.

“Why are you crying about?” he asked in an undertone. “I shouldn’t have told you. It was a long time ago little bird, it doesn’t matter now.”

Except it explained a lot, from his anger when she couldn’t look at him to his persistent disbelief concerning her feelings: the boy a prostitute had refused to glance at couldn’t deserve Sansa Stark’s love. His strong arms kept squeezing her until she stopped hiccupping.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, seemingly forgetting he was the one who had been wronged.

They stayed in each other’s arms for a while, Sandor patting her back and kissing the crown of her head from time to time. Sansa was so exhausted she could have drifted off and at the same time she wished she could comfort him; she nonetheless knew words were not enough to heal his wounds. _Only an act of love can fix what this girl did to him._

She thus propped herself on her elbows, momentarily escaping his embrace and she stared at him. She must have looked funny with her watery smile.

“What are you doing?” he asked, frowning. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m just looking at you,” she replied, pushing aside a dark strand of hair. Beyond the faint scent of soap that lingered on his skin, his own smell tickled her nostrils. She breathed deeper.

He shrugged imperceptibly, a way to feign indifference even though she knew he observed her from the corner of his eyes. Sansa took in his curious eyes, his mouth slightly ajar and she felt the need to kiss him. She leaned forward and her lips brushed his.

“What are you doing?” he repeated, his gravelly voice making her feel like she was more confident and daring than she’d ever be. He didn’t resist though, when she kissed him again. And all of sudden, as their kiss deepened - was it his initiative or hers? she couldn’t tell - Sansa knew exactly what she had to do. She was already leaning over Sandor; without breaking their kiss, she straddled him.

“What the fuck-” he whispered, the rest of his question swallowed by another kiss. Now that she straddled Sandor she felt his member against her thigh; it grew harder by the second. Sandor broke their kiss by grabbing her upper arms and giving her a gentle yet firm shove. “What do you think you’re doing here?” _You know what I’m doing._ “You must be sore.” Emerging from the covers, she sat up, looking down at him; his hands landed on her hips while his stare fell on her belly. Then his eyes slowly went up, taking in her small waist and her naked breasts; her back arched under his gaze. Sansa waited with bated breath, anxious he would reject her, yet refusing to believe he’d take such a decision. With a grunt, he sat up too, and reached for the pillows he shoved behind his back.

“Will you stop me?” she whispered out of provocation. They were eye level now, but Sansa felt empowered somehow, because she had taken the initiative, therefore disconcerting him. _Some men will let you ride them and love it,_ Jo had told her once. _Others will never forgive you if you try to do so. Men put their pride in strange places sometimes._ Sandor clearly wasn’t accustomed to being ridden but his eyes glistened with curiosity, not with disgust.

“Fuck no,” he hissed.

There were more kisses and his hands started moving on her before rubbing the spot between her thighs that made her weak. She moaned softly, trying to keep at bay some of the reasons why she wanted to make love to him at that moment. Despite the sort of haze she was in, Sansa knew she also did it to fix something broken inside him, to exorcise the memory of a girl who had done him wrong a long time ago by doing what she had refused to do; she knew it was stupid, she was aware women who chose a man as hardened and flawed as Sandor, believing their love would eventually make a difference, clutching to the faint hope their lover could change thanks to them, always deluded themselves. _This is not only about fixing him,_ she thought, _or about correcting an injustice. I want to do it because I want to share something with him._

“Help me,” she asked when she felt the head of his cock at her opening. She didn’t know how to proceed.

They were both panting, now, as she laid her forehead on his. “Just sit,” he replied in an undertone. Both hands resting on his shoulders, she did as he said while he guided himself inside her, his hungry mouth swallowing her faint whine: it hurt and at the same time, it felt good to have him inside her again. The ache radiating in her lower belly made her first movements slow and awkward. Sandor didn’t say anything though and he kept kissing and caressing her until the pain faded away, until she gained confidence. He was her rock, as she moved a bit faster now: one hand holding her hip and the other one going from her breasts to her lower belly, he didn’t only try to alleviate her pain, but he also pleasured her.

If their first coupling had been somewhat unpleasant for her - and therefore frustrating for Sandor - it seemed like this time they were really sharing something, that the muffled sounds escaping her lips echoed his grunts. And the tension she saw in his eyes matched the taut expression she knew he had noticed on her face. They guided each other as she rocked her hips against his.

“Please don’t stop,” he begged. His large hands grabbed her hips and set the pace now. If his release was close, Sansa could tell the sensations she felt were not as intense; they existed though and they promised her the same blissful abandon she observed on his face as he tilted his head back, eyes closed, a strangled sound coming out of his cracked lips. _It’s not supposed to happen tonight,_ she mused, _but next time, next time I will..._

Sandor stilled her movements, his grip on her hips tightening as he spilled himself inside her. Exhausted and shaking, she leaned forward to rest her head on his shoulder, suddenly needing the comfort she always found in his embrace. “I love you,” she mumbled against his collarbone.

By way of answer, he wrapped his arms around her and whispered, his nose buried in her hair: “How can I leave you, now? Tell me, how can I leave you?”

A tear rolled down her cheek but Sansa didn’t make a move to wipe it away. A few more hours and Sandor would be gone, forced to go back to the Red Mansion. They would have to face their daily routine and the burden of dissatisfaction it carried. They would both feel lonely for as long as they would stay away from each other, but they’d have the memories of that night to cherish, until they escaped New York together. _Together,_ she thought, holding him close.

* * *

**In Andrei's inner dialogue (translated by ADK_SanSan and Filis):**

**_Sansa, lyubimaya moya:_ my beloved Sansa**

**_Milaya sestra:_ my sweet sister**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!  
> Some aspects of the love scene are perhaps unconventional, but I didn't want it to seem 'too perfect' for a first time. Let me know what you think: feedback is welcome!  
> There's one chapter left and an epilogue.


	26. Last Visit to the Red Mansion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know how to say goodbye,” Sandor had uttered, after swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. He had his back to her and she could have taken it the wrong way if she didn’t know better than that by now. “Don’t know and don’t wish to learn how to.”
> 
> Thus, he had not said goodbye and he had stolen another kiss before sneaking out. His grey eyes had roamed over her one last time, heavy with want and sadness, and she had kept the memory of his gaze since that minute, like a weighty secret to bear. She had not seen him since that morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I read author's notes, I always roll my eyes when people promise angst and heavy doses of tension when there's nothing to write home about. That being said, reading this chapter at home or any quiet place is probably a better option than reading it at work (besides, it's a long one...).
> 
> Warning for language, violence, gore and some suicidal thoughts. Minor characters’ death.

_It’s quiet. Why is it so quiet here?_

Sansa woke up that morning in an empty bed, feeling confused. Something was wrong even before her eyes fluttered open. _He’s not here._ Despite the heap of covers, she felt cold and as she realized Sandor was in the Red Mansion, the unpleasant sensation only became sharper. The morning before - _well, it was still dark, it was just before dawn,_ she thought - she had woken up in Sandor’s arms. He was kissing her, trying to get another taste of his little bird before leaving. She could hear his breathing and enjoyed the smell of his skin at the end of the night. _After love._ His smell and his warmth wrapped her. She felt good and terribly anxious at the same time because she knew he had to go.

“I don’t know how to say goodbye,” he had uttered, after swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. He had his back to her and she could have taken it the wrong way if she didn’t know better than that by now. “Don’t know and don’t wish to learn how to.”

Thus, he had not said goodbye and he had stolen another kiss before sneaking out. His grey eyes had roamed over her one last time, heavy with want and sadness, and she had kept the memory of his gaze since that minute, like a weighty secret to bear. She had not seen him since that morning.

_He’s not here._ The notion he was a few blocks away, alone in his bed as well, was insufferable. _He belongs with me, and I belong with him. I don’t want to wake up alone anymore. I want to wake up because he’s snoring or because he takes up too much space in the bed._ Tears welled up in her eyes, rather uncontrollably; irritated because she couldn’t do anything about it, she wiped them away with impatience and decided to get up. _It’s too quiet here._

* * *

Baelish’s presence in the brothel that morning only intensified her unease. There would be another harrowing rehearsal after lunch as there was so little time left before Sansa’s birthday party and of course, he would attend the practice. In the meantime, since Baelish was somewhere downstairs, most likely in his office, she stayed in her bedroom, claiming she had to sew costumes.

At first, she had thought giving herself to Sandor would make her stronger, and that was true, up to a point. She was more determined to escape than ever, but at the same time, her night with Sandor had shed a different light on him and she had seen his vulnerability, his weaknesses. Sansa was his weakness; she feared for him and more often than not, her anxiety got the better of hope.

Edna came to say hello, and quickly understood that Sansa wanted to stay alone and soon left. Half an hour later, Meg used a random excuse to knock at her door and to spy on her. Despite her efforts not to seem rude, Sansa heaved a sigh when the brunette retreated to her room, knowing well that she had done less than a satisfactory job at hiding her exasperation behind fake smiles. Meg would hold it against Sansa, that was for sure; her strained smile when she walked away foreshadowed some backlash. Downstairs, she heard the phonograph blaring in the meeting hall. Someone was listening to Benton Overstreet’s hit. 

_For there's a change in the weather_  
 _There's a change in the sea_  
 _So from now on there'll be a change in me_   
  


That change, Sansa longed to experience it; she had been somewhat reluctant to changes during her childhood, her father’s relocation in New York being the only change she had truly wished for. After her arrival at Baelish’s, her world had been turned upside down and she had had to cope with drastic changes. It had been painful. _But I can’t stay here, I can’t carry on like this._ Without her noticing, she found herself humming the song.

_They say the old time things are the best_   
_That may be very good for all the rest_   
_But I'm goin' to let the old things be_   
_'Cause they are certainly not suited for me_   
_There was a time when I thought that way_   
_That's why I'm all alone here today_   
_Since ev'ry one of these days seeks something new_   
_From now on I'm goin' to seek some new things too_

Putting her needlework away, she tried to immerse herself in a book; she had not realized how late it was when she heard the girls hurtle down the stairs for lunch. Sansa left her book reluctantly and dragged her feet to the kitchens where she pecked at her food, feeling everyone else’s stare. _Surely they can’t guess I’m not a virgin anymore,_ she thought in an attempt to reassure herself. _It’s not written on my face._ They look at me because of the birthday party and that’s all. Still, she was uncomfortable with her red cheeks and her tendency to jump from her chair whenever she heard something unusual and she doubted she would feel any better before her escape - _if we escape,_ she told herself.

The lunch went on, the never-ending jingling of forks and knives getting on Sansa’s nerves. She decided to find an excuse to run upstairs when Baelish’s slender frame appeared in the doorway. A few minutes earlier, she had heard the phone ring in his office, but she had not paid much attention; his pallor struck her though and she understood that whoever had called him had brought bad news.

“Sansa, my office, now,” he enunciated.

The girls moved their eyes between their boss and his protégée, Meg chuckling behind her napkin.  Sansa stood up and followed Baelish out of the kitchens, but not before exchanging a glance with Rose. The old woman frowned over the stove. As she crossed the hallway, walking obediently behind Baelish, Sansa couldn’t help wondering if something had happened to Robb, if the bad news Littlefinger had received came from the North. _Robb doesn’t matter for him,_ Sansa told herself, shaking her head, _should my brother be dead, Baelish wouldn’t have a long face. It must be something else, something that affects him._

Littlefinger stepped aside so that she came in his office first then he closed the door behind them. From the corner of her eyes, Sansa saw his solemn expression and her anxiety came back. If something made Baelish speechless and gloomy, she couldn’t trifle with it.

Still silent, he gestured toward the upholstered chair where his guests usually sat. Suppressing a sigh, Sansa walked to the chair and settled on it. Slowly, Baelish followed her and sat behind his desk. Before talking, he swallowed painfully.

“I have bad news.” He paused, giving her enough time to notice his unusually serious gaze. The mocking gleam in his gray-green eyes had disappeared. _And he looks sincere,_ she observed, biting her lip. “Sansa, I got a call from the Red Mansion…”

And suddenly she reeled, imagining the police was questioning Sandor again, but she clung to the idea Baelish would never call Sandor’s arrest bad news.

“... Joffrey called. He said he wanted to watch you dance. I- I understood he wanted more than just watching so I refused. We had an argument. In the end, he said he would send one of his men to fetch you, whether I like it or not.”

Her teeth still pressed to the flesh of her lower lip, Sansa tried to take in the news; soon, she realized she was shaking. Images churned in her head as her stare fell to her lap. Some were terrifyingly clear, others were all in a blur, because she had cried. She had sobbed when Joff shouted at her and when blows rained down. She had to look at her parents’ caskets until her eyes burned.

“Sansa, I won’t let him hurt you,” Baelish went on, unaware his unctuous voice drove her mad. 

She shook her head with impatience. “How are you going to resist, then? Tell me, I’m curious. How do you intend to defy your boss?”

“He’s not my boss!” Baelish hissed, cut to the quick.

“Same difference! You have no idea of what he did to me, I was his fiancee at the time and he beat me. Now I’m just a girl living in a brothel.”

Baelish lifted his hands in a soothing gesture. “Dear, I know what he did to you and I know what he wants today. I won’t let him have you.”

“Because my virginity is so ridiculously expensive and you don’t want to lose your most valuable investment!” she snapped.

He gave her a blank stare. “Your virginity is not what I worry about. I sent Joffrey one of my girls, a few months ago. You never met her, because she worked in another brothel. You saw what the Mountain did to Viola? Well, Viola is still alive. The girl didn’t make it.”

She pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Baelish jumped from his seat and walked around the desk to give Sansa what meagre comfort he could offer. “You’re not alone, sweetheart, I’ll come with you, I’ll reason Joffrey…” His manicured hand landed on Sansa’s shoulder. Sansa wriggled away from him. “We’re in the same boat…”

“No, we’re not!” she shouted.

Baelish stiffened, then he seemed to rack his brains to find a better argument, while Sansa wiped her tears. _It can’t happen now. Not after all I’ve been through._ They heard voices in the entrance hall and just when Sansa pricked up her ears the door flung open.

“You can’t go inside!” It was Peitho’s voice, protesting uselessly against some intruder.

“Where are they?” A man asked. “Good! The redhead and the underling. I was told to bring back both of them.”

Sansa turned around to see the youngest of the Kettleblack brothers, Osney, baring his teeth. “Come on,” he growled, motioning her out of the office. “My boss isn’t a patient man in case you forgot it, you featherbrain. No need to pack a lot of clothes, I doubt they’ll be useful.”

“I’m coming with you,” Baelish whispered to her.

Although he kept staring at her, she stood up and walked to the door without ever looking at him. She moved past Osney Kettleblack, stopped and turned around to tell him, with a hint of contempt: “I didn’t expect you. Joffrey could have sent the Mountain, at the very least.” Kettleback chuckled. “Where is he, by the way?”

“Who? The Mountain? Why do you care about the Mountain?”

“Where is he?” Sansa tried again, ignoring his question. As he didn’t answer, she added out of provocation. “Oh, silly me! You do the Lannisters’ dirty work, you’re a cog in the wheel, so you don’t know where he is.” After her rude comment, Sansa’s cheeks were burning.

Kettleblack’s mouth dangled open then, feeling the curious stares of Peitho and some of the girls on him, he tried to regain his composure. “You’re mistaken. I know a lot of things. Like why the Mountain couldn’t come. Tywin Lannister went to a meeting with electors in Staten Island and he took the Mountain with him.”

She shrugged at that and headed to the staircase, while Osney Kettleblack told her to hurry up. Lost in thought, she ignored the girls who were eyeing her, some coming out of their bedrooms to watch her. _They know. They sense what awaits me._ Sansa nonetheless pushed open her door, mechanically took a carpet bag and shoved some of her costumes inside and a pair of glittery shoes; she put her coat and her hat on. Then she glanced at her father’s phonograph and at the table supporting the device. _There’s something here that will be useful. Who would have believed it?_ She crossed the room, opened the drawer and retrieved the Luger from its hiding place. The gun was loaded and she sighed heavily, as the pad of her thumb caressed the magazine. _I still know how to use it, hopefully._

Sansa had just enough time to hide it under several layers of lamé before someone knocked at her door. Without waiting for an answer, Viola came in. Her bruises and cuts had healed, yet her nose had lost its perfect shape and above all, her smiles and her energy had disappeared.

“Is this goodbye?” she asked Sansa.

“I don’t know.” Her arms fell to her side. “I’m not sure we’ll meet again.” She wiped away a tear and called herself a fool because saying goodbye to Viola made her cry. “You know what to do?” she managed to ask. Viola nodded. “Do it as soon as you can, please.” The tall brunette nodded again.

Sansa hurried to her desk, scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it out to Viola. “In case they ask. You don’t want our plan to fail, do you?”

Viola read it silently and shoved it in her pocket. “So we’re quits, now?”

“We’ll be quits the minute you keep you promise. Take good care of yourself, Viola. Please go, now.”

“Can’t believe I’ll miss you,” the sad, dark-haired girl added a bit stiffly. “Well, almost miss you.” She showed a clean pair of heels and Sansa found herself praying for Viola.

Downstairs, Osney Kettleblack showed his impatience noisily, shouting at the girls and commenting on Sansa’s sluggishness. She swept her room for the last time, took in the four-poster bed, the French window, the phonograph and the large armchair where Sandor sat and she took the handles of her bag. _No matter what happens, I won’t come back here._ She was already on the threshold when she changed her mind. In two strides, she was by the bedside table and she grabbed the book Sandor had offered her - _“I bought it, I didn’t steal it,”_ he had said. _This Side of Paradise,_ by Francis Scott Fitzgerald. A book should have been the least of her worries given the circumstances, but she felt like she had to take it with her. _This Side of the Paradise: that’s more or less what Sandor promised me._

She didn’t take the trouble to close her door; Meg would come rummaging about her things anyway. On the landing, Jo was waiting for her; the plump woman threw herself in Sansa’s arms. Surprised because she didn’t suspect Jo to be so fond of her, Sansa nearly dropped her bag. She let Jo squeeze her, before whispering in the woman’s brown hair: “Thank you for everything.” Sansa didn’t know if she was referring to Jo’s help the day the police had showed up or to her good mood, but it felt right.

At a slow pace, because the stairs were full of girls who watched her leave, Sansa went down. For a second, she locked eyes with Peitho who stood at the foot of the staircase, rigid as a statue; the blond madam’s features were unreadable at first, and Sansa shook her head because it was now that she needed Peitho’s strength. Another glance gave her a dramatically different impression: Peitho’s dark eyes shone with unshed tears, and although she didn’t make a single move, Sansa felt like the scene wasn’t new for the madam. She had experienced that before and she was torn between relief because she wasn’t some mad customer’s toy and horror - at thirty-two, those dark eyes had already seen too much.

“At last!” Osney Kettleblack spat.

Before he could snatch Sansa’s wrist to take her outside, Edna bolted out of the meeting hall and hugged Sansa. Her nose buried in the crook of Edna’s neck, the girl could smell the heady fragrance the bobbed brunette drenched herself in. “I don’t want you to go,” she mumbled in Sansa’s ear, patting her hair. Beyond her brash manners and her offhandedness, Edna seemed more vulnerable than Sansa had ever thought. Sansa told her under her breath: “Leave. Try to escape before it’s too late.” She had whispered so that no one around would hear her words, and she couldn’t tell whether Edna had understood or not; Osney Kettleblack led her outside. Tightening his grip on her, he dragged her toward the entrance door despite the horrified gasps of the girls.

“Can someone tell Rose to warn Tyrion?” Sansa asked to anyone who would listen.

“The dwarf can’t do anything for you,” Osney Kettleblack retorted, before shoving Sansa outside. She nonetheless managed to glance over her shoulder and she briefly saw Edna’s face: she was smiling at her through her tears.

The youngest of the Kettleblack brothers then pushed Sansa inside the black car parked in front of Baelish’s house: she almost tumbled on the seats, her head hitting the headrest. Littlefinger followed them,insisting to come with Sansa; Kettleblack and him argued on the sidewalk, while Sansa rubbed her sore forehead. The Mad Mouse joined them, planted himself in front of Joffrey’s man and barked at him; the Mad Mouse’s support seemed to cheer up Baelish, who flourished angrily. In the end, he got in the car with Sansa, glaring at Osney Kettleblack who shrugged before ensconcing himself on the driver’s seat. Sansa felt Baelish’s heavy gaze on her but she ignored him conspicuously and looked through the window.

“Sansa…” Baelish began.

“Shut up, for God’s sake. You said you would protect me from Joffrey, but obviously you can’t. What do you think you’re doing here?”

Somewhere behind her, she heard Baelish sighing heavily. The ride to the Red Mansion would be a silent one.

* * *

 

_Let’s hope Viola keeps her promise. Let’s hope Rose finds a way to tell Tyrion I’m going_. Never had her life depended on other people’s good will, it seemed. It made her feel giddy and left her mouth dry.

At first sight, the Red Mansion was almost deserted; Tywin’s expensive Duesenberg had disappeared and the French coupé Cersei enjoyed driving through the streets of New York was gone too. _Joffrey framed me,_ she told herself bitterly. _No one is here to thwart his plans._

The car door slammed ominously after Osney Kettleblack got out of the car and made the gravel scrunch under his boots as he walked to the back door of the Red Mansion. He stopped abruptly and swiveled his head to glance back at Baelish and Sansa. Petyr had stepped out of the car first and turned to her, offering his hand to Sansa, but she had ignored him angrily, like she had done since they had left the brothel. _I can’t count on him. I can just count on Sandor and Tyrion if they’re not miles away. Apart from them, my only hope is a German manufactured handgun hidden in my bag._

“Come,” Kettleblack spat. “Don’t make Mr Baratheon waste his time.”

Clutching the bag containing her things, she obeyed reluctantly, still refusing to make eye contact with Baelish.

“I won’t let Joffrey touch you, you know,” Baelish whispered as Kettleblack led the way. Joffrey’s employee had already reached the porch; his fingers hovered over the door knocker.

“And how are you going to do that?” she asked, without trying to hide her disbelief. “What’s your plan? Punching Joffrey in the face, then pouncing on his men? Seriously?” This time, she glared at him and took in his helplessness. _You’re pathetic._

“I’ll talk to him, I’ll reason him.”

She shrugged. “Spare me. Whether you admit it or not, you’re only interested in money. You wouldn’t lift a finger for me, you only worry about your investment. Am I not right?” Talking about herself this way, with a detached tone, felt strange. Sansa gritted her teeth and observed Baelish whose eyes had widened.

“How can you talk like that? I did everything for you,” he hissed in an undertone. He stopped in his tracks and she panicked. _Oh no, I went too far. I shouldn’t have infuriated him._ “Maybe I can’t… fight Joffrey, but…” As his tone softened, she breathed easier. “I have some... influence on him, don’t forget it.”

Sansa was still observing him and he hurriedly crossed the space between them. “I’m not saying this will be easy but I won’t give up. I’ll talk him out of it.”

She swallowed hard. “Will you?” _That sick game, once more. He’s trying to seduce me, I spurn his advances but it only makes him more eager and in the end, I pretend to yield to get what I want. I’m so tired of all this._

Baelish nodded gravely, a parody of detective movie hero, and she could have laughed at his miserable face had the circumstances been different. Silent, they looked at each other for long seconds, until Osney Kettleblack yelled at them: “For fuck’s sake, are you coming in or not?” Baelish almost jumped at his voice and obeyed without a word. The gravel crunched under Sansa’s high-heeled shoes as she resumed her walk to the door.

Inside, the butler raised an elbow when he recognized her. The man led them to what Cersei pompously called the antechamber, saying Joffrey would see them later and they had to wait here with Mr. Kettleblack. _Under Kettleblack’s watchful gaze,_ she told herself.

The crimson wallpaper and the carmine upholstered armchairs, combined with the rather modest dimensions of the room made her feel like she was suffocating. After a short while, Baelish sat down in one of the armchairs, sighing heavily. Osney Kettleblack was still observing them, his hands shoved in his pockets, his jacket slightly opened so that they can see his shoulder holster; with an incline of his head, he motioned Sansa in one of the armchairs and their wait began.

* * *

The dark-haired girl Humfrey Waters had led to his office was sitting with her hands on her lap, holding her fancy purse. Her cloche hat didn’t hide her face and from where he was, Addam Marbrand could tell she had been a beauty - one of these arrogant, shady beauties some of his men were ready to die for. That was before someone broke her nose and stole the sparkle in her eyes, of course.

Through the open door of his small office, he saw how her profile had been altered. Settling a stare onto his desk, the girl pretended she didn’t feel his eyes on her yet he knew she gave him a sidelong look every now and then; he retrieved his lighter from his pocket and asked one of his men for a cigarette to put up a front. _So we’re both pretending we don’t observe each other. Fine._ He puffed on his cigarette and glanced at her again. The muscles of her jaw moved slightly though, and Addam Marbrand realized she was gritting her teeth, readying herself for his questions.

“So?” Humfrey Waters asked him, his quiet voice almost drowned out by the sound of the typewriters. His young colleague had materialized himself next to him, hands buried in his pockets in an attempt to hide his nervousness. “Are you going to question her?”

Addam Marbrand took another long drag of his cigarette before answering: “Depends. What did she say?”

“She says she knows who killed Meryn Trant and that fellow who was murdered in the warehouse filled with casks of spirits.” As Addam snorted at that, Humfrey Waters saw fit to add: “Perhaps what she says is not as interesting as what she has to show. Pictures of wounds and bruises… She says the man who killed these two men also beat her and broke her nose.”

Arching his eyebrow, Addam gave the young man a long look. “The name she gave me is interesting too...” Waters trailed off, smiling smugly. “It would explain a lot.”

“And what name did this lovely lady give you?” Addam sighed.

“A name that already appeared in this file.” If Addam’s jaded tone and skepticism annoyed him, Waters didn’t show any trace of exasperation.

“Sandor Clegane?”

“Nope. I should have said this man’s last name already appeared in this file. She said Clegane’s brother, Gregor, butchered those men.”

Addam uncrossed his legs and barely gave a look at Waters before heading to his office. “I guess I need to talk to the nighthawk.”

* * *

 

 “Why coming today?” Addam asked the girl. She said her name was Viola Jamison and since the moment he had started questioning her, she had that guarded expression that annoyed him. _There’s something she isn't telling me._

The dark-haired girl’s strained smile only increased his doubts. “Did you pay attention to the pictures or to that doctor’s gobbledygook? I didn’t understand half the words he used in this letter, but I can tell you one thing: I couldn’t walk after this bastard beat me.” She slightly leaned over the desk and spat: “I wish I could have come before but I had to ask for someone’s help when I needed to pee.” Her cheeks were red and he noticed how her chest move up and down with indignation.

“So to make a long story short, Gregor Clegane spends the night in Baelish’s house, he chooses you… he beats you and he suddenly confesses he murdered two men weeks before. How convenient.” Addam sat back in his wooden swivel chair, observing her reaction over steepled fingers.

“I know what you cops think,” she countered. “I’m a whore so I’m a liar. I’m used to that shit; I don’t mind. See, the pictures tell you the truth. Look at me in the eyes and tell me the man who beat me couldn’t kill these two folks.”

Addam nodded thoughtfully. “Your wounds and the cuts found on the victims are consistent, that’s for sure. I mean the man who was strong enough to murder Meryn Trant could break a woman’s bones... But give me one good reason why he would confess his murders to you. Hmm?”

Under her cloche hat, she glared at him and whispered: “Because I fought back. I resisted him. Why do you think he broke my bones and nearly strangled me? I kicked him, I actually hurt him and that’s why he told me he had killed them. To threaten me. He said I would be dead at dawn and he meant it. If one of the girls had not found me…”

“Who found you, by the way?” he cut her off.

Something changed in her expression and Addam wondered if she was remembering the dreadful moment after her aggression or if there was something else. “I passed out,” she finally replied. “I can’t tell you who found me.”

There was something about her story he couldn’t quite place and it bothered him. Addam pushed himself from his swivel chair and took a few steps. In the periphery of his vision, he saw the girl turning her head to follow him. _You’re asking yourself if I believe you or not, right?_ “But why come in today?” he insisted, his tone just as cutting as he meant it to be.

She didn’t flinch though and when he gazed at her again, she sported a triumphant smile. “Because I know where this bastard is today. I know where you can find him.”

Addam’s jaw dropped and he said nothing for a while; the girl stared at him, smiling smugly, anticipating her aggressor's arrest. His mouth twitched and he almost bolted out of his office, shouting to Waters: “Call immediately the Coast Guard Office! Ask for Stannis Baratheon and tell him I have some information for him.”

_We can fucking kill two birds in one stone,_ he thought as an incredulous grin appeared on his stern face. One of his men stared at him in disbelief. When he had arrested Sandor Clegane, he has made a mistake: he never should have kept this to himself. Going solo because he wasn’t sure those murders were related to the Lannisters’ dirty business was a stupid idea, if he ever had one. If Tywin Lannister or his daughter Cersei were busy answering Stannis Baratheon’s questions, they wouldn’t care about the thug he was interrogating, leaving a lot more elbow room for Addam’s investigations. _We can kill two birds in one stone. And it would be more than just two birds. An exploit. The crowning achievement of my career... Or my downfall, if I fail._ The notion he could lose everything didn’t dampen his spirits, though. If he could cause harm to his sister-in-law, Stannis Baratheon would grab the opportunity with both hands. _There’s a risk,_ he told himself looking around him and feeling like he could finally see beyond the dilapidated headquarters of the police, beyond the budget cuts and the lack of men. _Maybe the girl’s lying. It’s a fucking risk I’m ready to take._ Addam felt the familiar thrill coming back, making his hands tingle. _After all, that’s why I do this job._

* * *

Whatever Joffrey had to do before turning his attention to his ex fiancee took him an hour. There wasn’t any logic in insisting on Sansa’s visit as a matter of urgency then making her wait, but in the end, Sansa wasn’t surprised. As she waited with bated breath, glancing at the heavy clock on the mantelpiece, she told herself time was against Joffrey as long as Viola kept her promise and as long as Sandor and Tyrion came back to the Red Mansion. The expensive clock started to obsess her and every move of the hands brought her closer to her release - whatever that release was - and closer to her final confrontation with Joffrey.

She remembered what she had felt the first time she had sung onstage, during the first show in Baelish’s house. How her heart pounded wildly in her chest, how the spotlights blinded her; she had wished she could just close her eyes or shield them from the dazzling light with her hand. Instead of that, she had steeled herself and waited for the first notes of the song, bravely steadying her gaze on a spot at the end of the room, even if she saw strange green forms behind her closed eyelids whenever she blinked. The sensation was similar, up to a certain degree, for she had been young and naive and scared at that time, persuaded anything could happen during the show. The danger that awaited her was much bigger now - she knew that a quick death was more desirable than staying in Joffrey’s clutches, if Baelish had told her the truth - but the feeling she was about to leap into the void, like the first time she had sung before a male audience was very much the same.

_He’s leaving us to stew in our own juices,_ she mused, her eyes drifting away from the clock to settle on Baelish’s deep frown. _He doesn’t know that the more he waits, the more chances I have to survive and to escape this place._ Deep down, she knew she had no good reasons to gloat over the situation, yet by repeating herself she could leave the Red Mansion otherwise than being carried out feet first had become crucial.

When she heard footsteps behind the closed door, then when Joffrey’s slender frame appeared in the doorway, she jumped all the same. As he was against the light of a lazy afternoon sun, she made out his silhouette more than she saw him and she certainly couldn’t read his expression although she guessed a smug, malevolent smile lit his face.

The sunrays played in his blond hair as he addressed Osney Kettleblack: “So you finally brought this piece of shit here as well?” He was angrily pointing at Baelish; he strutted towards the treasurer of his campaign and looked down at him. “I didn’t summon you at first. I just wanted your protegée here. Why did you make all that fuss when I rang you?”

Baelish had spent years maneuvering people, including the Lannisters, but Sansa knew he wasn’t accustomed to dive in head first; he swallowed painfully and held Joffrey’s gaze. “I need to talk to you.”

Joffrey snorted. “I’m sure this can’t wait!” He rolled his eyes. “ Well, I’m listening, Petyr.”

Sansa waited for Baelish’s answer with anxiety; she wished he could discourage Joffrey from doing whatever he had in mind yet she feared his influence on Cersei’s son was derisory, even after years spent in the shadow of the Lannisters. “Let Sansa go,” Baelish finally said.

Joffrey burst out laughing. In the small antechamber, the sound of his cackling filled the air, arrogant and sinister. Still sitting on the red armchair, Sansa cringed, protecting herself behind the bag she had placed on her lap. “And why would I let her go, prithee?” he asked without trying to conceal all the irony and contempt his words conveyed. _Joffrey isn’t even able to say my name out loud,_ she mused. The young man fidgeted; she noticed the imperceptible yet repeated shrug of his shoulders, foreshadowing a fit of anger.

At that moment, Baelish was still sitting, craning his neck to hold Joffrey’s gaze; he did something Sansa didn’t expect and pushed himself from his seat, unhurriedly, forcing Joffrey to step backwards. Standing toe-to-toe, the two men observed each other, Joffrey looking down at his treasurer who challenged him. In the periphery of her vision, she saw Osney Kettleblack coming closer, just in case his employer needed something. “Show Mr. Baelish out, Osney, before he forgets himself,” Joffrey spat.

“If your muscle man kicks me out, I’ll be very disappointed, Joffrey. And when someone disappoints me, I become very talkative about their dirty little secrets. Would you say your election campaign is beyond reproach? Journalists would be thrilled to learn you enjoy the company of prostitutes and... what kind of activities you have with them. Besides, I can’t imagine their reaction should they learn how you treated a girl whose name they read in the social register. Not everyone forgot who Sansa Stark is.”

Joffrey didn’t flinch but Sansa noticed his tense jaw. “Are you threatening me, Petyr?”

“Just preventing you from doing something stupid. You don’t want to lose everything because of a girl. You don’t want to disappoint your mother and grandfather, do you? Not to mention the Tyrells.” Baelish’s unctuous tone was back. He inched slowly until he was nose to nose with his employer. _Careful, now,_ Sansa thought. As much as she hated Baelish, he was for now her only ally in the Red Mansion and she hoped he would succeed.

After a short silence, Joffrey turned to her briefly then he settled his eyes on Baelish. “Now that she’s here I’m not going to send her away,” he said out of provocation. “I say the girl and I go to my apartments.”

Again, Baelish’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly before he retorted: “Let’s have a conversation, Joffrey.” With a smile, he patted the young man’s upper arm; as he glanced at Sansa afterward he didn’t see Joffrey’s hateful gaze. Her ex fiance hesitated, it was plain to see: he didn’t want to obey Baelish nor to lose face, yet he knew the man was right, somehow. In his green eyes, she saw his instinct colliding with sense and in the end, he snorted and shrugged.

“Well, if you want to come with us and enjoy the show…” he trailed off.

Sansa was petrified. She tried to make eye contact with Baelish to no avail.

Joffrey motioned her out of her seat and to the nearest door, telling Osney Kettleblack to join them afterward. Weak in the knees, Sansa followed, exited the room, tripped on the carpeted stairs and grabbed on to the handrail not to fall. Baelish, who walked in front of her turned around at that moment and placed his hand on hers. “It’s alright. I’m going to talk him out of hurting you. All you need to do is-” He stopped abruptly when Joffrey, already on the landing, called them. “... Do as I say. I’m going to tell him we’re lovers.”

She gasped, more scared than shocked. _Does he want to infuriate Joffrey even more?_ She doubted Joffrey would be pleased to learn his ex fiancee had slept with a man he saw as one of his employees. _In this case, Joff is going to kill us both._ As they finally reached the landing, Baelish gave her another look: she frowned slightly, recognizing some sort of encouragement in his eyes. _Is he mad?_ Then a realization dawned upon her: Baelish hoped that the news would somehow discourage Joffrey. _“I’m not the kind of girl who makes do with someone else’s scraps,”_ she had heard Viola say once. Viola was talking about one of Dorothy’s customers the blond girl didn’t want to see anymore and she had said he would be perfect for Viola. _Maybe he thinks Joffrey will react like Viola and give up if he thinks I’m damaged goods._ _Could Baelish be right about this?_

Complaining about their slowness, Joffrey led them to his apartment, in the west wing of the Red Mansion. All the things surrounding her in the gallery or in the hallways looked familiar after weeks spent in the Red Mansion, before the Kettleblack brothers had taken her to Baelish’s house. The mahogany furniture, the old engravings and the Victorian knick-knack were at the same exact place she had saw them before her departure, but far from taking comfort in their presence, she felt tiny and weak, engulfed in this huge building. Her thoughts turned to Sandor again; she wondered where he was, what he was doing and if she would ever see him again.

As Joffrey, a few feet ahead of her, opened the door leading to his apartment, the sunrays briefly caressed his golden head. A peremptory snap of his fingers and they obediently walked in the room where Joffrey had placed a billiard table and huge, soft armchairs and sofas. He closed the door behind them, then walked to the nearest armchair where he collapsed.

“What are you waiting for, Sansa?” he asked. “Show me what you’ve learned in the brothel.”

She stayed perfectly still, her fingers squeezing the handles of her bag.

“Joffrey,” Baelish intervened. “Leave her alone.”

“Why? Why do you care about her? You know that I wondered for a while about your attitude toward my ex fiancee, but now I think I see your little game.”

_Oh no. Don’t lie to him. Your stupid lie will kill us both._ Baelish took a step forward, paused, then came closer. “You probably guess it right, Joffrey. We’re lovers.”

Joffrey’s laughter echoed under the coffered ceiling, sending a shiver down Sansa’s spine. His hysterical laughter brought back terrible memories and with them the desire to sink into the wall. Much to her surprise, her eyes remained dry. _I guess this is what people call resolve. I won’t let him have me, I’d rather kill him. Or kill myself._

“Is it true, Sansa?” Joffrey inquired. Eyes downcast, she couldn’t see his malicious smile, but she knew it was there, pulling upward his pouty lips. She could feel that smile when listening to his venomous tone.

Trembling, she raised her eyes. Both men were staring at her, one smiling smugly, the other almost begging her to confirm what he had said. Baelish was all that stood between her and Joffrey. The door opened on Osney Kettleblack and the short respite his arrival provided barely allowed Sansa to compose herself. “We’re lovers,” she whispered, telling herself she had just sentenced Baelish to die with her.

“Do you believe her?” Joffrey asked, addressing Osney Kettleblack. “Baelish here told me these two were lovers and she confirms.” He was squirming on his seat, gesturing at her and Baelish.

Kettleblack shrugged. “I don’t know, sir.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Joffrey offered and the inflection of his voice, conveying a very explicit kind of threat, made Sansa shake like a leaf.

“Stop torturing the girl,” Baelish protested. “We had an agreement: I took care of her and made sure she didn’t run away. You stopped abusing her in exchange. I stood by my commitments.”

“You said you were going to sell her virginity, but you fucked her. I pity the men who are ready to pay a hefty chunk of money for… something you already took.” Joffrey had that all too familiar look in his eyes. _He’s mad,_ she mused. “I’ve heard my uncle visited the brothel to see you dance, Sansa,” he went on. “Dance for me. We’ll see if your training has been of some use. Your lover can stay, if he wants, it’s not going to prevent us from having fun.”

“Tell your friend to wait outside, at least,” Baelish insisted.

Joffrey frowned, then swiveled his head to give Baelish a long look. “As you wish.” He gestured nonchalantly and she heard Osney Kettleblack’s heavy footsteps as he retreated from the room.

“Go change yourself, Sansa,” Baelish said softly. _He has something on his mind, that’s for sure._ She remembered there was a folding screen in the darkest corner of the large room; she slowly made her way to the screen, still holding her bag.

The knot in her stomach tightened as she started taking off her coat, her shoes, her cardigan sweater and her dress. She retrieved her infamous belly dancer costume from her bag and put it on. Then, she shoved the heap formed by her clothes and her shoes in her bag, but not before taking the Luger. She finally placed the gun back in the bag, on top of her clothes, within easy reach.

Joffrey was losing patience: still barefoot, she took her carpet bag and carried it across the room. While doing so, she noticed Baelish’s sudden interest for a bronze statuette Joffrey kept on the mantlepiece. In the shape of a naked goddess, the statuette that apparently fascinated Baelish looked heavy; he weighed it up, wondering. In his eyes, she recognized something akin to hesitation. _Does he want to knock Joffrey unconscious? Would it be enough to escape?_

Sansa wouldn’t take that risk. _There are eight bullets inside the Luger’s magazine. Two for Joffrey, before Osney Kettleblack storms in, two more for Osney Kettleblack. That leaves four bullets to keep at bay Baelish or anyone else who stands in my way._ Thinking like Sandor would in a similar situation was strange: she swallowed painfully, stopped and put down her carpet bag. A few feet separated her from Joffrey and Baelish who was standing slightly behind his employer, still holding the bronze statuette. Sansa and Baelish exchanged glances after his curious eyes drifted away from her carpet bag.

“What are you waiting for?” Joffrey spat. “What are you doing with this stupid bag anyway?”

“I’ve got records inside,” she explained tentatively, chiding herself for not being able to speak without quavering. “I- I remember there’s a phonograph somewhere.”

“Some music won’t do no harm,” Baelish approved, placing the statuette on the nearest table.

Her palms were clammy as she turned around, then bent forward to open her bag and took the handgun. She stood up slowly, her back to them, spun on her heels and took aim at Joffrey. The clicking sound of the safety almost made her jump.

“She’s crazy!” her ex fiance screeched, panicked yet glued to his armchair. Propping himself up with his arms, he pressed himself against the back of his armchair, putting as much space between himself and the Luger as possible. “She has a gun… Baelish, do something! Call Osney!”

Compared to Joffrey, Baelish’s reaction was much more restrained. “No need to call Osney for now,” he said, staring at Sansa and inching closer. “She’s emotional, that’s all. But my Sansa is a good girl and she’s going to give me that gun, isn’t she?”

“Don’t move!” Sansa told him, as tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m going to shoot.” As the words escaped her mouth she realized she could not pull the trigger. _What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I kill him?_ Sobbing now, she heard Sandor’s voice when he had given her the Luger and instructed her about how to use it. “I’m sorry,” she murmured apologetically. “I ruined everything.”

Her hands trembled on the gun as she stepped back to keep her distance with Baelish who was coming closer; she knew it was already too late.

“I’m here, Sansa,” Baelish whispered, his voice caressing as ever. “Yes, good girl…” He carefully wrapped his hand around the barrel and he took the Luger from her hands. “Ssh, it’s over.”

Hiccupping, she wiped away her tears. _I’m going to die and I can count on Joffrey to make it slow and painful._

“Crazy bitch, you’ll be sorry for this!” Joffrey spat. His look of terror struck her and she wished she had had the courage of pulling the trigger earlier. _I could have done it,_ she thought bitterly. A helpless girl wearing open side harem pants, unable to shoot at her tormentor: that was how she would die, despising her own weakness.

Baelish placed a hand on her shoulder and slowly turned to Joffrey. Sansa caught a glimpse of his smile as he observed the trembling form in the armchair. “See?” Baelish said casually. “It wasn’t difficult.”

Then everything went out of control.

Baelish extended his arm, took aim at Joffrey who opened his mouth to scream and the sound of the gunshot deafened her. Speechless, she moved her eyes between the lifeless young man in the armchair and the dark-haired man who looked surprised by his own boldness. _Oh my God. Joffrey is dead_. She wanted to make sure it was true, to touch the wound she saw on his forehead, but she was petrified. After a short moment of hesitation, Baelish cocked his head to the side and observed her. Wary, she stepped backwards.

“What are you doing?” he asked, a hint of disappointment perceptible in his tone. “I saved you. Now we’re going to leave this city together. A fresh start. We can go wherever you want,” he added. His enthusiasm sounded a bit artificial. “What do you say, Sansa?”

Sansa shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Give me the gun back, it’s mine.”

“You don’t know how to use it, obviously.”

Before she could protest, she realized something was amiss. _Why is it so quiet? Where’s Osney Kettleblack? He should have heard the gunshot…_

The door flung open. Instinctively, Baelish pointed his gun at the newcomers and snatched Sansa’s wrist. She gasped, because he hurt her and also because of the tall frame she saw in the doorway. _Sandor._

He held a submachine gun and Sansa knew instantly he must have killed Osney Kettleblack and whoever had tried to stop him. Behind him, she spotted Tyrion Lannister who carried a handgun. At that moment, all she could think about was to run to Sandor and fly into his arms, but Baelish pulled her close and pointed the Luger at Sansa, placing the barrel against her forehead.

“Don’t move, or I’ll kill her. You don’t want her dead, don’t you, Clegane? She’s going to come with me, like a good little girl. You had other plans, Sansa, right?” Tears blurred her vision. _No, it can’t be this way._ Against her ear, she felt Baelish’s breath; he tightened his grip on her, almost strangling her in the process. “Is it with Clegane or with the Imp you planned to escape? You’ve got nothing to tell me, love? Guns make you shy, it seems.”

“We’re two and you’re alone,” Tyrion intervened. “There’s no way you can escape and Sansa is not going to make things easier for you.”

Through her tears, she saw Sandor’s determined gaze, ready to shoot. At that very moment, Sansa shielded Baelish’s body, making it impossible for Sandor to aim at Baelish without risking to wound or to kill her. She made eye contact with him and tears stopped rolling down her cheeks. Baelish started stepping backwards, forcing Sansa to follow his retreat.

_Sandor’s eyes…_ she focused on them, on the strength they exuded, forgetting all the rest - including the fear that had paralyzed her minutes before. Years after, when she would recall that scene, Sansa would swear to herself she had seen him nodding ever so slightly, in a discrete gesture of acquiescence.

_Now. This is now or never_. As forcefully as she could, she elbowed Baelish, hitting the ribs rather than the stomach, but it threw him off balance all the same. She then got down on her knees, knowing what would happen next; a bullet whistled over her head then the distinctive sound of the submachine gun put an end to the chaos around her. There was a thump behind her, like the sound of a body hitting the floor and then a deafening silence.

She still was lying flat on her stomach, fingers digging in the thick carpet when a pair of arms scooped her; Sansa still kept her eyes closed, she thus smelt Sandor before she saw him. Her nose against the collar of his overcoat, she recognized the mix of sweat and leather combined with a faint odor of booze she associated with him. Her arms instinctively found his neck and she buried her face against his chest.

“We should go.” It was Tyrion’s voice, tinged with concern and something else she couldn’t quite place. “There’s no time for this.”

Reluctantly, Sandor put her down and broke their embrace. Sansa turned around and contemplated Baelish’s corpse lying on the wooden floor. There were at least two wounds on his chest, piercing the expensive waistcoat. The man had threatened her and would have eventually abused her, yet he had forced her eyes open; now she couldn’t ignore the ways of the world anymore. He had taught her she was a minor player, lost in a bigger picture; above all, he had forced her to dissemble and to stay focused on her goal: escape New York. Thus, he had somewhat caused his own downfall.

Sansa walked to his lying form and squatted to take the Luger from his hands; she took the carpet bag she had abandoned nearby and followed the two men who had rescued her, without a single gaze to Joffrey’s lifeless form.

“I’ll meet you outside,” Tyrion whispered before running to his sister’s apartments.

As she hurried downstairs with Sandor, she saw from above Osney Kettleblack’s body, sprawled across the marble floor, his head resting in a pool of blood; someone had slit his throat. Once in the entrance hall, she heard some noise coming from one of the hallways; noticing her surprise, Sandor explained: “Tyrion locked the servants in the laundry room.”

Outside, the sun almost blinded her, but she jumped at the sight of Tywin’s Duesenberg. There was another body outside the car face down on the gravel, and through the windshield, she saw another form, most likely killed while sitting on the back seat: the victim had collapsed on the seat and Sansa couldn’t see his face. Whoever had done this had not bothered to push the car door closed, so it now moved back and forth in the chilly wind.

“But Tywin-” she began, before Sandor squeezed her hand. She understood too late she should have keep her mouth shut. Behind her, she heard Tyrion panting. He carried a suitcase too big for him.

“I killed my father,” Tyrion announced, somber, yet apparently unmoved.

“Tywin arrived shortly after us; Tyrion had just locked everyone in the laundry room when his father came back,” Sandor explained. “Let’s go to the car. There’s nothing left for us here. You’ll change on the back seat, Sansa.” That was when she remembered she still wore her belly dancer costume. She gave another look at Tyrion; a long time ago, she had understood what kind of unhealthy relationship Tyrion had with his father. Some details of their past that had remained a mystery for her probably explained Tywin’s murder but Sansa suspected Tyrion would never broach the subject with her, nor with anyone else.

The gravel hurt the sole of her bare feet as she crossed the backyard; the three of them got inside a black car, Sandor started the engine and they exited the Red Mansion.

On the back seat, Sansa was struggling with her brassiere, eager not to be seen while she changed clothes; the way Sandor stepped on the gas then braked didn’t make things easier. From time to time, she caught his anxious gaze in the rear view mirror, as if he wanted to make sure she was still there. They drove through the bustling city, heading west, it seemed.

“Are we not going to New York City’s Harbor?” she asked.

“Nope. We’re going to Philadelphia,” Tyrion replied. Sandor methodically swore at every driver who was too slow for him. “The next ocean liner leaving New York leaves in two days: we can’t take the risk. We can be in Philadelphia tomorrow and we’ll get on board right away.” He sighed. “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he went on, turning to Sandor. “Where’s Gregor? I thought the Mountain was with my… my father. Why would he come back home so early and without Gregor? That doesn’t make any sense!”

“Dunno,” Sandor spat. “I don’t like it. I wish I knew what my fucking brother is up to.”

Sansa had just pulled on her dress. “I think- I think I know where he is.”

“How is that possible?” Sandor almost shouted. He honked at the car before them and overtook it swiftly.

“I think the police arrested him, Sandor.”

“Why? Why would they fucking arrest that asshole?”

“Because your brother came to the brothel a few weeks ago; I never told you. I warned the girls before pretending I was sick but… It didn’t change anything. Gregor beat, raped and left one of the girls for dead. I… took care of her afterwards. She insisted to repay me the favor. I asked her to go to the police this afternoon, with some pictures of her wounds and bruises, to accuse Gregor.”

Tyrion snorted. “Since when do the police arrest men for the rape of a prostitute? They don’t call it rape, in the first place.”

“Viola told them Gregor had boasted about the murder of Gerald Halder and Meryn Trant. The witness they questioned talked about a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair. Gregor matches that description.”

Far from gloating over his brother’s arrest, Sandor turned to Sansa briefly, glaring. “He was mine to kill. You had no right to do that.”

Deep down, his reaction didn’t surprise her. She had always been aware of the tension between the Clegane brothers and she knew it could only end badly, if one of them had the opportunity to lash out at the other. She squeezed her eyes shut, telling herself she had made the right decision: she hoped Sandor would understand her choice, with time. She contorted herself to take her harem pants off, then she put her stockings on.

“Are you crazy?” Tyrion asked Sandor. “She probably saved our lives! What do you think your fucking brother would have done, after finding out we were gone? He would have hunted us down to Philly! He would have caught us, most likely.”

Out of breath, he paused, glanced at Sansa around his shoulder, then went on: “I had a score to settle with my father: do you think I could have killed him with Gregor protecting him?”

“Killing your father was a bad decision in the first place,” Sandor spat.

“It was my call!” Tyrion shouted. “Can’t you see what Sansa did for you? For us?”

In lieu of thanks, Sansa placed a timid hand on Tyrion’s shoulder. He didn’t answer and silence stretched in the car for a long while, until Sandor rasped: “Are you done with your clothes? Come here, then, if you can.”

She clumsily climbed over the front seat to settle herself between the two men. In the orange light of the sunset, Sandor steadied his gaze on the road as they exited New York, seemingly ignoring her.

“Can you drive, little bird? Because you’ll have to if we want to arrive on time. Tyrion can’t drive. We’ll stop within an hour, we’ll get in another car.”

_He means we’ll steal another car, Sansa told herself._ She nodded.

“Now take a nap. I’ll wake you up once we’ve found another car and you’ll drive for an hour or two. The Imp will make sure you stay awake.”

As she didn’t reply, Sandor glanced at her. “Are you mad at me?” she mumbled, on the verge of tears.

His eyes moved between her and the road, then he finally wrapped his right arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Her face buried against the woolen fabric of his coat, she closed her eyes, wishing he could reply in the negative and clear up the misunderstanding instead of just squeezing her shoulder.

* * *

 

The foghorn - or whatever it was - woke her up. She was on the front seat of the car, curled up against Tyrion. She sat up straight, still dizzy yet a bit ashamed of the situation. Sandor was nowhere to be seen.

“Hello, sunshine,” Tyrion said mockingly.

“Are we in Philadelphia?” she asked, surprised by her own sleepy tone. She remembered how she had driven the night before, while Sandor snored on the back seat. One or two hours before dawn, he had taken the helm, telling her to get some more rest. She had quickly fallen asleep to wake up here, near the wharfs.

“Yes, we are. See the black and blue liner out there? It’s ours. I just bought tickets and we’ll board the ship for England in an hour.”

“Where’s Sandor?” Suddenly, she was anxious. Turning around, she swept the street without seeing him. Her neck was sore after a night spent in the car: she winced slightly and settled her eyes on Tyrion again.

“Said he wanted to buy you something. I hope he comes back with something to eat, I’m starving.” He paused just long enough to catch his breath, then he added: “You know what’s the date today?”

His mismatched eyes gleamed strangely and she couldn’t help thinking he might be playing a joke on her. “I don’t know, Tyrion. Is it that important?”

Tyrion shrugged, but his eyes still glistened. “I booked two cabins, one large and one small. Sandor said something like _“the little bird should have the large one.”_ ”

She sighed. “You can pick the one you want, Tyrion. All I want is to share a cabin with Sandor.” _No matter what Tyrion is thinking right now, no matter how wanton I sound, I couldn’t care less._

Sansa suppressed a yawn and as her answer seemed to put an end to the discussion, she observed the people coming and going in the street.

As the memories of the day before came back, she wondered if Cersei was looking for them and in this case, if she had sent some of the remaining Lannister men on their track. Then she recalled Sandor’s reaction when he had learned where Gregor was and her inability to kill Joffrey when she had had a chance.

“What’s on your mind?” Tyrion asked. Sansa gazed at him with suspicion, before confessing: “I almost ruined everything yesterday. I had this gun Sandor had given me and I was… facing Joffrey. I wanted to kill him. I couldn’t pull the trigger. You know how I felt about Joffrey, but I couldn’t. I felt useless. I feel useless.”

Tyrion remained silent for a while, then he took her hand in his. “Maybe you should stop blaming yourself and think about what you did without a gun. You got rid of a man who’s taller and stronger than Sandor. Probably the most dangerous man I ever met and believe me, when you’re Tywin Lannister’s son, you get to know a bunch of thugs and killers. You did this without shedding blood and you made this possible.” With a sweeping gesture, he showed the passenger compartment and beyond, their surroundings. “Now, Sandor is pig-headed and he won’t admit it but he knows it was the only way. With Gregor on our heels, I’m not sure we could have made it. As strange as it seems, you saved my life, Sansa Stark. My life, yours and Sandor’s.”

A single tear rolled down her cheek as they waited in silence again.

“Look,” Tyrion exclaimed. “Here he is. I’ll give you some privacy.” After giving her a knowing look, he opened the car door, and reached his feet to the ground. The crisp air flooded in the car and with it, the salty smell of the sea. _We’re leaving._

The front seat depressed underneath her when Sandor got in, seemingly filling the car with his large frame. On his good cheek, she noticed the dark circle under his eye and she felt a pang of guilt. _He’s exhausted. I could have driven for one or two more hours. I should have insisted instead of letting him take the wheel again._

Sandor fidgeted a bit, then placed a package wrapped in brown paper on her lap. “It’s for you, little bird.”

“Thank you, Sandor.” Under his scrutiny, she unwrapped it, but long before she could see the cover she knew it was a book. “ _Geography of Great Britain and Ireland_ ,” she read. _More Tyrion’s cup of tea than mine._ “Are you afraid I will get bored during the journey?” she asked mischievously.

Raising her eyes, she noticed the small tug at the corner of his lips. He had rested his arm on the back of the seat and his fingers played with the collar of her coat; his silence somewhat startled Sansa, until she felt his large hand patting her bobbed hair, then stroking her jaw.

“Do you know what’s the date today?” he asked. Tiredness made his voice hoarse and his question sounded like a growl.

_That stupid question again? We left New York and we’re safe: that’s the only thing that matters._ “I don’t know and I don’t care,” she answered, a bit sulky.

“You don’t care?” he insisted, putting the book away and pulling her close. He lifted her and unceremoniously sat her on his lap. Instinct made her wrap her arms around his neck as he whispered against her ear: “March the 25th. It’s your birthday.”

As a realization dawned upon her, tears came back and she buried her nose in the crook of his neck.

“You’re free and it’s your birthday,” Sandor went on. “Happy birthday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it... Let me know what you think!


	27. Epilogue - Sad Blue Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mattress moved underneath her as he rolled over in bed; Sansa dropped the letter and her gaze settled on Sandor, who was lying on his side, facing her, eyes closed. Sometimes he looks sulky when he sleeps. His left hand rested on the mattress, fingers curled in a fist like he was ready to fight an imaginary foe. This is over, my love, don’t you know it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to my beta, Underthenorthernlights. You know you're the best, right?
> 
> Comments feed the author... If you enjoyed this story, please let me know.

**Excerpts of Edna Randall’s diary**

March, the 26th

I can’t believe we’re in Chicago. We made it. We still have a long trip ahead of us though - should I say a never-ending trip? I don’t even know when we’ll arrive in Los Angeles. Peitho is dozing in the sleeping compartment while I’m writing this and poor thing, I don’t want to wake her up.

We put behind us the madness of New York and that’s what matters. I still shiver when I think of what happened in the Red Mansion. Newspapers spilled a part of the Lannisters’ dirty secrets and gossiped about Sansa’s part in the slaughter. Did she kill Joffrey Baratheon, his grand-father and Petyr? That’s not the girl I knew. I mean, she had reasons to hate them and to want them dead, but killing people doesn’t sound like the sweet girl I met. The newspaper I bought this morning in Chicago’s Central Station before we got on the train again said at least two other men disappeared with her: Tyrion Lannister and the big six with ugly scars who looked at Sansa with puppy-dog eyes. My guess is these two killed everyone and whisked her away. They probably took off by now and the police won’t pinch them.

She seemed to get along well with Tyrion Lannister: I hope he will treat her right. I hope the scarred torpedo won’t hurt her. I don’t think he would, but men are strange creatures, sometimes.

So are women. Peitho’s head is resting against the window and she has this peaceful look about her... Her closed eyelids flutter from time to time, as if she’s dreaming. I swear I’d kiss her on the spot if we were alone in the sleeping compartment, but the old-bag sitting opposite to her wouldn’t understand.

Nobody understands. Sometimes I don’t understand either. I’ve been with girls before, it’s not like Peitho is my first, but I didn’t feel this. I never did. I’m elated and I’m afraid. I’m balled up. I’m not sure I ever felt this for a man. It’s strange, really, because before I met Peitho, sleeping with women was fun, period. The thrill of doing something forbidden, I guess. That and the realization women pay close attention to their partner, although it’s not a rule, some women being just as selfish as men when in bed. It was exciting like a game.

During my first nights with Peitho, I felt that thrill and I enjoyed being treated like a princess: no one had been so eager to please me before. Then something else happened. I suddenly felt there was Peitho and there was the rest of the world. I thought I was too disillusioned and too frivolous to fall in love. I was all wet.

Now I’m scared. I should be relieved because the Lannisters could have taken revenge on us - God knows those people are crazy - and because we escaped New York. We’ll have a fresh start in Los Angeles and I think that’s what frightens me. It’s like jumping into the void. I’ll turn 29 next summer and I’ve worked in a brothel all my life. I certainly don’t want to do that anymore, but what kind of job can I get, in California? Whores aren’t exactly famous for their ability to transform themselves.

Sometimes this concern disappears though and I find myself worrying about Peitho. And me. Knowing her biblically doesn’t mean I know her at all. That’s what I find so fascinating yet so terrifying about her. Sansa felt the same, back in New York; the more she learned about Peitho, the less she understood her. In the end, the girl didn’t want to deal with her anymore. I love my baby but I know she often makes that impression on people.

Peitho surprised me when we took train tickets in Chicago. The waiting room was almost deserted at that moment and our footsteps resonated in there. She asked for two one-way tickets and she sported a broad smile. Why would someone look so happy when running away? I guess this is almost natural for her. She’s quite experienced in running away and making fresh starts...

Still… How will Peitho react once we’ll be in Los Angeles? She’s sleeping peacefully for now, with my coat on her lap, but my blond baby is so unpredictable. I can never tell if she’s going to kiss me or to bare her claws. Will she dump me as soon as we reach Los Angeles? Not sure I can take it…

Two girls going to Los Angeles on their own, one blond and one dark-haired, running away from their turbulent past… It sounds like a good scenario for the Paramount, if you forget the fact we’re lovers. I wish it was someone else’s adventures I was watching on the screen, but it’s my life and it’s not quite funny.

Can we make this work, Peitho and I?

***********

When Peitho woke up it was almost dark and Mrs. Grundy who’s sitting across the aisle was ready to go to bed: such a wet blanket. Peitho was in a good mood. I asked her what made her so happy and she gave me this answer: “When I bought these train tickets I realized I was running away from something, once more.”

I didn’t understand the serene gleam in her dark eyes. She tilted her head back against the upholstered wall of the compartment and she added dreamily: “For the first time in my life, Edna, I don’t feel alone.”

* * *

**Third letter written by Brienne Tarth to Robb Stark:**

New York, March 27th

Dear Mr. Stark,

Since the day you hired me and Podrick Payne to find your sister Sansa and bring her back to Minnesota, we have been confronted with disappointment and false hope. I am sorry to inform you we couldn’t find her today either, but the news I heard is encouraging. Here is the report of our investigations.

When we arrived in New York, the city whispered about the murders at the Red Mansion and the headlines were all about the death of Tywin Lannister and his grandson. I guess the news arrived in Minnesota by now and the St Paul Pioneer Press probably ran this crime as a headline. Mr. Payne found the address of Mr. Baelish’s house and we rushed to the brothel where we thought your sister was locked in.

Baelish’s house is a four-storey building with an opulent-looking facade, but I immediately noticed there was something wrong: some of the windows were open, the curtains blowing in the wind. The front door was open too. We nonetheless decided to come in, Podrick and I, and we gingerly crossed the threshold. We had been told it was one of those luxury establishments where women sold their body: the truth is, the entrance hall looked like a tornado had destroyed everything inside. Shattered vases and knick-knack in bits and pieces, papers on the floor… The sight turned my blood into ice when I imagined your sister there.

As nobody showed up, Payne decided to scout the upper levels while I would check the first floor, but we heard some noise: we both hurried to the room where the noise came from and we arrived in the kitchens. There was a woman in her sixties, short and gray-haired, rummaging in the kitchen cupboard, probably looking for anything valuable. She froze at once and asked us who we were. Needless to say I asked her the same thing.

The sight of my handgun might have encouraged the old woman to speak; she told us she had worked as a cook in this house for years and she had lost her job with Mr. Baelish’s death and the closing down of the brothel. I asked her if she had information as to your sister’s whereabouts and she suddenly became even more wary. It would be too long to go through our conversation with a fine-tooth comb, but in essence, I learned she had tried to help your sister, by carrying messages to a man who had promised to rescue her.

The day Messrs Baratheon, Lannister and Baelish were killed, your sister had been summoned to the Red Mansion by Mr. Baratheon and she feared for her life. She nevertheless obeyed and headed to the Red Mansion with Mr. Baelish, but not before asking the old cook - her name is Mrs. Rose Willoughby - to tell Mr. Tyrion Lannister where she was.

Whether she knew more about it or not, Mrs. Willoughby remained silent after assuring me your sister had left with Tyrion Lannister and another man who worked for the Lannisters. His name is Sandor Clegane. As far as I know, he is the man the police charged with murder after the slaughter at the Red Mansion.

I can’t tell you what kind of relationship your sister and this man are in; Mrs. Willoughby kept repeating she didn’t like Mr. Clegane at first but she believes your sister is safe with him. She thinks they might be on a boat to South America or to Europe. When I confessed I was working for you, she made me promise to tell you Sansa is going to send you a letter. According to her, your sister doesn’t want you to worry about her and she will write very soon.

Mr. Payne and I left Mrs. Willoughby, but not before making her write down her name and address, then we went to the harbor and asked about your sister. Despite our efforts, we didn’t find her name on the passenger lists we checked so far. We didn’t find Mr. Lannister and Mr. Clegane’s names either. Maybe your sister got on board under an assumed name, maybe she didn’t get on board in New York but elsewhere. In any case, we will keep looking for her until we find something.

I received yesterday the check you sent us and I will make good use of it.

Sincerely yours,

Brienne Tarth

* * *

At dawn, when he was still sound asleep, Sansa indulged herself in watching him after silently turning on the light. Lying on his back, one arm flung above his head, he snored. Sometimes there was a half-smile on his face, as if he knew she was here, staring at him. His pillow had disappeared and Sansa knew he had probably tossed it to the floor. He never wore anything, the sheet and quilt shielding him from the cold nights of October. She always bit her lip, shook her head at his bad habit and drew the covers up to his chin, watching his every move, fearing he might wake up.

Six months ago they had fled from New York. During their journey, she had insisted on sharing her cabin with him and they had not spent much time away from each other ever since. After their arrival in England, they had decided to head North and to settle in Scotland, where the Lannisters had no connections. _Always together._ She smiled. _Always with Tyrion._ A sigh escaped her lips. _I know I should be grateful._

Even the occupation they had found in Aberdeen - a small guest house they ran in a quiet neighborhood - allowed them to spend their days together. Tyrion had bought the place and, considering himself a permanent guest, he had taken up residence in the best room, the one with a view of St. Machar’s cathedral. He never lifted a finger to help them and let Sansa and Sandor take care of everything.

Sometimes, she felt bad for Tyrion, who still drank too much. He had never opened up to her after he had killed his father and she knew for sure he had not broached the subject with Sandor. Sansa took comfort in repeating to herself he only needed time; he wasn’t on his own, after all. He had them. _Time will heal._

As Sandor rolled on his side, showing her his back, she sat up and turned her attention to the muddle of papers and books on her bedside table: an envelope caught her attention. If she was being honest, the random paper of the envelope was nothing remarkable; she intended to re-read the letter it contained before her eyes fell on it and that was all. _When will I get another letter from Evie?_ After glancing at Sandor’s sleeping form over her shoulder, she reached out to the envelope and took it.

She had recognized Evie’s handwriting at once when she had collected the mail the morning before. For the tenth time, she ran the pad of her thumb on the stamp in the top right corner: it showed a cluster of people in seventeenth-century clothes on a shore. Above the scene, she could read “Huguenot-Walloon Tercentenary”. Three hundreds years ago, these people had left Europe and its lack of religious tolerance to settle there, in a place that wasn’t called New York yet. _Looks like we made the journey the other way around,_ she mused. _Someday, we’ll go back to New York, though. It’s just a matter of time._ Now that her brother Robb sent her reassuring letters on a regular basis, she was optimistic.

Sighing, she unfolded Evie’s letter and started to read again:

_“Cape May, September 25th,_

_My dear Sansa,_

_How are you doing? How is Sandor? Your last letter made me so happy Lothor said I behaved like a schoolgirl._

_You asked about my son: little Andrew spends his days crawling on the floor and he’s getting bigger. At the end of the day, when I come back home - did I tell you we live in a little house near Mr. Berdokhovski’s? - he doesn’t want to let go of me. My boy will be a strong one, Lothor keeps saying it. He loves to play with Andrew and I believe my son will call him “Daddy” as soon he’s old enough to speak._

_Lothor is fine too. Sometimes he’s grumpy and he says protecting Mr. Berdokhovski is a sort of cushy number, compared to what he did before in New York, but in the end, he’s happy with it. I believe he’s happy with me too. For my birthday, Lothor offered me an engraving showing several views of Scotland. It makes me think of you, out there in Aberdeen._

_Mr. Berdokhovski sends his regards. I know you worry about him and I would like to reassure you… Oh, dear Sansa, what can I say? It is a pleasure to work for him as a housemaid: he is such a kind-hearted man. He is sad sometimes but he never complains. I do my best to make him smile by adding a flower on the tray where he takes his tea and small things like that, but he is the shadow of his former self, even if the Lannisters are not a threat for him anymore._

_In your last letter, you asked me if Lothor made me happy. He does. I am safe with him and so is my son. He is kind too: I know Lothor will be a good husband to me and a loving father for Andrew. I am wondering sometimes, though… What will I tell Andrew when he grows up? Will he find out Lothor is not his father? Should I tell him what I did for a living during seven long years? When I married Lothor, I told myself I was becoming a honest woman, with a decent job and a husband, but now I know better. Turning over a new leaf is a pleasant idea, but it is just words._

_I don’t want to make you worry about me: these are the ramblings of a woman who has few friends and who is not used to writing long letters. We are safe and I am grateful for that. The other day, when I was running errands for Mr. Berdokhovski, I tried to imagine your wedding with Sandor on the boat going to England: I am sure it was very romantic…”_

The mattress moved underneath her as her husband rolled over in bed; Sansa dropped the letter and her gaze settled on Sandor, who was lying on his side, facing her, eyes closed. _Sometimes he looks sulky when he sleeps._ His left hand rested on the mattress, fingers curled in a fist like he was ready to fight an imaginary foe. _This is over, my love, don’t you know it?_ The first rays of light wouldn’t peek through the curtains for awhile but she told herself she should get up and wake him up. She didn’t feel strong enough to do it, though, and she stared at his balled fist. Hair grew on the back of his hand and on his fingers, but something else drew her attention. Polished and thin, a golden ring fit snugly on one of his fingers. Sansa wore the same ring on her left hand - _only much smaller,_ she mused. _My husband._ Distractedly, she mouthed it several times, tasting the words on her tongue. _My husband. My. Husband._ It wasn’t something new by now, but it still made her lips curl in a girlish smile. _Someday, he’ll be my children’s father._

Was it her whispering or the light shed by the bedside lamp that awoke him? She couldn’t tell. All of a sudden, she noticed the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, then the way he smacked his chapped lips and his eyes opened. He took in her half-sitting position, her tousled hair that had grew longer since they had left New York and he growled: “Have you made a deal with my sleep, girl? Are you meant to wake up before me and watch me sleep?”

Sansa giggled, then tilted her head back against the wooden headboard; before she could react, he had tugged at her nightgown and dragged her towards the center of the mattress.

“What are you doing?” she protested merrily, lying down.

“Why are you wearing _this thing_?” He straddled her and his large hand fisted the fabric of her nightgown. Towering above her, he looked formidable, his muscled torso emerging from the covers.

“Because you offered it to me,” she retorted, trying to remain serious, but finally biting her lip at the thought of what would follow. _Unmistakably._ Sansa took his hand, playfully pushing him away, delaying the moment when no obstacle would remain between them; he took her hands in his. Palm against palm, their fingers intertwined, they stared at each other for long seconds.

“Right. I bought it for you. Allows me to tell you when to remove it,” he trailed off, his tone eliciting pleasant goosebumps on her skin.

He nevertheless seemed to change his mind, for he lowered himself and rested the scarred half of his face on her belly. “I remember a time when watching your naked back was enough to make me feel like I was the luckiest man in the fucking State of New York.” He propped himself on his elbow and looked up at her. “Now I need to see more of you,” he added very solemnly, making her laugh with his puppy eyes.

The broad grin on her lips wouldn’t slip away as she ran her fingers through his hair; Sansa challenged him silently.

“Well, Mr. Clegane,” she finally answered, “I don’t feel like pandering to your every whim today. I’m afraid you’ll have to take it off yourself.”

It was enough to make his gray eyes darken; just like she expected, he descended on her like a beast.

* * *

**Excerpts of an interview given by singer Josephine Harrow and trumpet-player Quinn Byrnes on the radio station WNEW (July 1953)**

**Salvatore Dent:** [...] We’re pleased to welcome here today the petulant and curvaceous singer Josephine Harrow and her accomplice, the discreet, yet successful trumpet player who distinguished himself more than once during the last twenty-five years and who is best known for his hit _Sad Blue Eyes_ : Mr. Quinn Byrnes!

**Josephine Harrow:** Good evening, Sal, good evening everyone. I missed you so much, New York!

**Quinn Byrnes:** Good evening. It’s a pleasure to be in New York again.

**Salvatore Dent:** This tour you made was a long one, I’ve been told. You’re not exactly on holidays in New York, though, with the upcoming release of a new 45. In association with Cuban musicians, unless I’m mistaken?

**Josephine Harrow :** Nothing escapes the great Salvatore Dent! (laughs) My old friend Quinn is responsible for this new album. Can you believe he was on vacation in Cuba when he decided we should make this new record?

**Quinn Byrnes:** It’s true.I spent some time in Cuba last year and that’s how I met the musicians we recorded with. I was in Havana and then I heard this band in a restaurant… They played compositions by Ernesto Lecuona and such. You know what it’s like… I- I had to join them and play with these people, although I don’t speak their language and they don’t speak mine.

**Salvatore Dent:** So music was the only way to communicate?

**Quinn Byrnes:** Absolutely. Their guitar player, Hector, started with a chord progression, then I improvised something on it with my trumpet. That’s how we composed several songs.Then Jo arrived and chipped in.

**Salvatore Dent:** So you went to Cuba to have a good time and in the end, you spent your time out there working?

**Josephine Harrow :** I’ll tell you something, Sal. This man is a hopeless case! I think he composes even when he sleeps! You know he came back here with a dozen songs he had penned out there? That, and an infamous nickname: Pelirrojo.

**Salvatore Dent:** Meaning?

**Josephine Harrow :** Meaning ‘Ginger’ in Spanish. Even with a few grays, Quinn is still a redhead for them.

**Salvatore Dent:** (burst out laughing) She spares you no humiliation, Quinn! Anyway, _South Wind_ is the first of these songs. The critics say ‘a smidgen of jazz in a very Cuban tune’...

**Quinn Byrnes:** Jo’s name and mine are in capitals on the sleeve, but you know… I felt like I was more accompanying these guys than the other way around. This 45 is more about me venturing to play Cuban music than Hector and his friends playing jazz. Jo even sang in Spanish for some of the songs.

**Josephine Harrow:** These songs in Spanish will be released soon, hopefully!

**Salvatore Dent:** Let’s talk about your career now. For most people here, Quinn, you’re the composer of _Sad Blue Eyes_ , a song Jo’s performance made unforgettable. How did the red-haired kid born in Brooklyn and the curvaceous girl from Oklahoma meet, then outsell some of the most successful jazz singers of our time?

**Josephine Harrow:** We stuck together. Sticking together is the key. (sighs) I couldn’t work with someone else. Quinn is not just an amazing trumpet player and a gifted composer: he knows me. We’re each other’s best friend.

**Quinn Byrnes:** Wow, thank you, Jo. I’d say we were lucky to find each other, thirty years ago. We’re a team.

**Salvatore Dent:** What about _Sad Blue Eyes_? This song started your collaboration and your career. What’s the story behind this song?

**Josephine Harrow:** Don’t be shy, Quinn, tell him the story.

**Quinn Byrnes:** I woke up in the middle of the night after a dream, thinking of a girl I had met years before. We met, Jo and I, years before.

**Salvatore Dent:** We’re all ears. (laughs)

**Quinn Byrnes:** Don’t start building castles in the air! It’s not- Anyway… It was during the Prohibition. I was twenty at the time and I was in a band. We usually played in seedy places including the juice joint where Jo worked at that time. And there was this girl, always dolled up. Red hair, tall and graceful. She danced and she sang there. One day, my band was supposed to accompany her while she sang and I discovered she was more than just a Queen of Sheba, she was actually talented - something I didn’t expect. From that day on, we worked together on the songs she wanted to sing…

**Salvatore Dent:** And the girl had blue eyes, I guess. Why was she so sad?

**Josephine Harrow:** Oh, Sal, she didn’t belong there. She was a good girl, not a brazen-faced like me!

**Quinn Byrnes:** She wanted to escape this shady world we lived in.

**Salvatore Dent:** With you, Quinn?

**Quinn Byrnes:** No, not with me. You have to understand I was just the red-haired trumpet player of the band and I’m not even sure she knew my name. But she did something very generous: she encouraged Jo and that’s how she began to sing. If it wasn’t for her, I’m not sure I’d have worked with Jo.

**Josephine Harrow:** I read somewhere _Sad Blue Eyes_ is about a one-sided relationship Quinn had. Bullshit! Just listen to the lyrics, for God’s sake! It’s not about a love story, it’s about the girl who brought us together, Quinn and I, and who helped me overcome my doubts about my voice.

**Quinn Byrnes:** This song is about a beautiful, sad girl who I wasn’t able to help. She wasn’t my love interest or something. You know, it sometimes happens: there are people you find fascinating but you wouldn’t fall in love with them. You enjoy watching their every move because they’ve got something different from the rest of us and somehow, watching them makes you happy. That’s what I felt for this blue-eyed girl.

**Salvatore Dent:** Did she escape, in the end?

**Josephine Harrow:** She did, with another man! Sadly we never saw her, afterwards. They were in a lot of trouble, so they spent some time in Europe, before they came back in her hometown, somewhere in the North. They’ve got children and grandchildren of their own, as far as I know. I won’t say anything else, because her family is well-known and embarrassing her is the last thing we want to do.

**Salvatore Dent:** Assuming she’s listening to us, tonight… What would you tell her? Josephine?

**Josephine Harrow:** I’d say thank you. At the time we met, she could never suspect we would work together, Quinn and I, yet she encouraged me, she forced me to work with Quinn. I owe her a big, big favor, you know.

**Salvatore Dent:** Your turn, Quinn!

**Quinn Byrnes:** Is it a trick question? (laughs) I don’t know, Sal… I’d tell her we would have been great if we had had a real chance to work together. I’d tell her I still miss her voice and her sense of rhythm. Running away was the best thing that happened to her though. (after a silence) Sorry, I don’t feel very eloquent tonight!

**Josephine Harrow:** I’m Quinn’s accomplice but she is his muse. She’s mine too, somehow. Before going onstage, my thoughts often go out to her. I can still imagine her sweet little face after all these years and I can hear her telling me ‘It’s alright, Jo, you’re going to do great’. I often spare a thought for her before going onstage. Do you, Quinn?

**Quinn Byrnes:** Always. I always do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was a very long one - at least for me - and I'm amazed and grateful it still has your attention.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, leaving kudos and commenting: it means a lot to me!


	28. Sansa Stark Fandom Challenge - Sansa Stark Petyr Baelish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sequins sparkled with Sansa’s every movement as she sashayed toward the stage, ignoring his smile and his encouraging words. Indifference was her armor, these days. _Go ahead, give me the cold shoulder, as long as you sing and dance for me._ One day she’d beg him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, this is not a sequel to There'll Be Some Changes Made, just an entry to the Sansa Stark Fandom Challenge... in the universe of There'll Be Some Changes Made. You can see this as a sort of bonus chapter, I guess.  
> Here are the rules: 'create a one-shot minific about Sansa and any lover from the POV of the lover. It can be any other canon character, preferably true to character, and either canon or AU, but leave Sansa’s thoughts or motivations indeterminate.'  
>  If you’ve read my fics, you know I don’t ship Sansa and Petyr Baelish and that I actually find their relationship creepy; I chose to write this from Petyr Baelish’s POV because I didn’t want to write another SanSan fic. Their dynamics is interesting and for some reason I decided to make this a Prohibition AU one-shot.  
> Written with love, but not edited by a beta reader: please tell me if you spot any grammar mistake.

The sequins sparkled with Sansa’s every movement as she sashayed toward the stage, ignoring his smile and his encouraging words. Indifference was her armor, these days. _Go ahead, give me the cold shoulder, as long as you sing and dance for me._ One day she’d beg him.

The first time Petyr had seen her auburn locks and her deep blue eyes, the shock had been intense and he distinctly remembered the lump in his throat: when his eyes had fallen on her that day, he had felt like he was seventeen again. Sansa Stark had that effect on him; she never failed to bring him back to his adolescence, to the turmoil he had felt for another red-haired girl - except his young love had been a hopeless one.  _Unrequited love,_  Lysa had explained back then, unsuccessfully trying to seduce him.  _Wrong. Cat felt something for me but her father married her away. I wasn’t rich enough for the old man, at the time._

Taking a long drag of his cigarette, he wondered what old Hoster Tully would say if he could see him now. _What goes around comes around._  His success and his links with the Lannisters had made him a key figure in New York. His speakeasy and his brothels were crowded every night. Cat was gone, and it was a shame, but her daughter remained and she had been left in his care. He decided who the girl talked to, what she did, what she sang for his customers and more importantly, what she wore.

Over the last few weeks he had taken an interest in women’s fashion and dance costumes, preferably made of flimsy fabrics and with strategically placed cut-outs. The girl was just another investment and he had to make the most of her charm; who could blame him if he got an eyeful of Sansa’s curves in the process?

Like the nights before, he had chosen the garments she had donned: a brassiere embroidered with copper-colored sequins the dancers of the  _Ziegfeld Follies_ would have killed for, beaded harem pants and an abundance of bracelets that tinkled when she danced. He left the wings to admire her performance with the rest of the audience.

As she sang her silly song about a cheik in front of dozens of men crammed in the hall, Petyr couldn’t take his eyes off of her; by the third chorus he somehow convinced himself she was singing only for him, that her red lips only moved for him, promising the sweetest of nights in an exotic country, right under the heavenly vault. A burst of applause awoke him from his reverie. As usual Sansa’s act was a success and she bowed deeply, several times, before two of the girls took her place. Petyr finished his cigarette, dropped the butt on the floor and strode back to the wings. Already halfway in her change of costume, if the sequined brassiere discarded on the floor was any indication, Sansa hid herself behind a screen.

“Sansa, a word.” He bit his lip at once: he sounded desperate and being desperate in front of Cat’s lookalike was the last thing he wanted.

The girl glared at him over the top edge of the screen. “I don’t have time for a word,” she said coldly. “Don’t you remember? You demanded that I sing both  _The Sheik of Araby_  and  _There’ll Be Some Changes Made_. I need to get back onstage in three minutes.”

His manicured fingers curled into a fist and his eyes drifted to the stand mirror nearby; the flawed surface of the mirror showed a man in his late thirties, wearing a black tuxedo on which a red carnation stood out. This man, as elegant as he was, looked defeated.

Sansa moved past him to check her makeup in the mirror, smoothing her bobbed hair then grabbing her lipstick tube. As she applied some more lipstick, Petyr stayed behind her, amused to see their reflection. With her shiny evening dress and his dark tuxedo, they looked like a real couple in the intimacy of their bedroom, almost ready to go out for dinner.

“I feel like buying you a new dress,” he tried again, brushing her bare arm.

She instantly recoiled. “Thank you, but I don’t need anything. If you will excuse me…”

And she was gone. Her nerve disturbed him whenever she answered back or when she refused the presents he showered her with. He watched her running to the stage then disappearing behind the heavy velvet curtains and he let out a sigh.  _This girl will be the death of me._


End file.
